


Building love backwards

by shouting_skeleton



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Attempted Sexual Assault, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gregor's dead, Married Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark, POV Multiple, Sandor's sister is alive, Slow Burn, Some Plot, Trauma, clearly not very loyal to canon (sorry), elder brother as therapist, for both of them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:00:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 39
Words: 117,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26030797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shouting_skeleton/pseuds/shouting_skeleton
Summary: Sandor Clegane isfine- he has a job, an apartment, and his dog Stranger. Sure, he has secret goals and desires, but those are shoved down far enough that even his therapist is having trouble finding them. And that'sfine. But when Gregor dies, Sandor is thrust back into the world ofthe society, with archaic customs, stuck up nobles, and one little bird that may change everything... ;)(Sansan modern-ish marriage AU, hard to explain but give it a read and perhaps you'll like it :))Note: the explicit rating is earned very late in this story, so for the most part you can consider this as mature; it can be read as a kind of cute, extremely slow burn sansan.Also, this fic is now complete! :D
Relationships: Sandor Clegane & Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 958
Kudos: 921





	1. The New Lord Clegane

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for checking out this fic, this is my first time posting my writing online- comments/feedback would be very welcome. Hope you enjoy :)

## Chapter One: The New Lord Clegane

###  **Sandor**

“You’ll need to come down to the estate.”

“I’m not fucking coming. You can tell me now or not at all.”

The woman on the phone took a deep breath, as if the news was harder for _her_ to deal with than it was for Sandor. Sandor clenched his mobile so tightly he was surprised the screen didn’t crack.

“Your brother is dead.”

“Are you sure?”

“Am I… I…..”

“Sometimes the bugger just disappears or drinks himself into a coma. Are you sure?”

“Come and see for yourself.”

She was probably being sarcastic, but Sandor had made sure to get a good look at that cold, frigid corpse before sending it to the crematorium. His brother really was dead.

“Would you like a container for the ashes?”

“Hells, no. Get rid of it.”

They did, and that was that. No more Gregor. Apparently it was an overdose- though whether it was drugs, alcohol, or something else Sandor had no idea. He didn’t care. Gregor was dead- _of course he would even rob me the chance of revenge_ \- leaving behind a _very_ relieved widow. Gregor had made sure to leave her nothing in his will, but when Sandor proposed that she might want some of the money, she had stared at him in horror, eyes widening as her gaze settled on his face. Sandor might have snarled at her, but remembered that she had married Gregor, so simply sighed.

“You should take some of the money.”

“I’ll take _nothing,_ ” Gregor’s widow said. “That monster has no hold on me now.”

Sandor could have pointed out that Gregor would have no hold on her if she took some of the money, since he was _dead,_ but the look she gave him suggested that Gregor wasn’t the only monster she was concerned about. _I’m not my brother,_ Sandor wanted to say. He had to remind himself often- when estate agents flinched away from him as he reached out his hand to offer a pen, when he stepped into the bank and he saw the woman’s hand slip under the desk to the emergency button, and when a child had run up to him at the park the day before.

“What happened to you?” The child had asked.

_Ah,_ Sandor thought, _a bold one- not as bad as the ones that scream._ A frantic man was running towards them, but Sandor had a few moments to spare. He crouched down to the child’s height, keeping his voice low and level.

“They sent me to burn in the seven hells, but I clawed my way back up.”

Then he straightened up, just in time for the father to gape at his height- or face, Sandor was never sure which it was- before striding away.

When Sandor’s friend suggested doing up the manor, Sandor had snarled at her.

“Do I look like I have the money to do that?”

She was perhaps the only woman immune to his scowls and swearing, and that was why Sandor was friends with her, but gods, if she didn’t drive him insane.

“Yes,” Brienne said, “Of course you have the money. You said it yourself you didn’t know what to do with it.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“I believe your exact words were ‘I’m going to drink so much I’ll get through this cursed inheritance in one night so th--’”

“Alright, I get it,” Sandor grumbled. He _had_ said that.

“But given that you’re sober-”

“Why would I want to do this place up?”

“It would make it far easier to sell. The type of people that could afford to buy an estate like this aren’t the same people that want a DIY project, nor do they want to wait for it to be fixed. Do it up now and when it goes on the market it’ll sell better.”

Sandor tried to ignore the logic in her words.

“You could even start your own company now,” Brienne suggested. “You’ve got the money to hire a team, and the perfect project, entirely in your control.”

“The only thing I’d need a team for would be to smash this place down.”

Though Sandor had moved into a different area than the rooms where he had grown up, he still didn’t feel comfortable knowing that a few hallways away was his old bedroom, his parents’ room, and Gregor’s. Surely spending more time here would only make that worse, even if it was time spent reinventing the space entirely.

“I need a drink,” Sandor said.

Brienne rolled her eyes. Sandor decided he needed a drink five times a day, and Brienne had heard him say so for every day of his two years spent sober.

“You think it won’t sell like this?”

“Doubtful,” Brienne said. “You could ask the neighbours, see if they know of anyone looking to buy.”

“That’s a bloody useless suggestion,” Sandor said. “I hate the society; bunch of miserable cunts with sticks up their arses.”

_The society_ was one of the things that had made his childhood so utterly miserable with their pomp and snobbiness and staggering wealth. Sandor hated it, hated all of it, but he couldn’t lie- the money he had gained from Gregor’s death was immense, tempting enough to lure him in, if only for a moment, to sort out the accounts and sell the estate. Not even Gregor and his father had managed to whittle away the millions. But Sandor wasn’t going to do up the house- sure, he had already made sure that there was food in the cupboards and fridge, and had fixed a long-broken oven, but that was _not_ because he was going to stay, but because he was there often, with different estate agents and property valuers. The estate was little more than one house- a manor, really- and several guest houses, spanning a countryside entirely too quiet, all curved hills and the distant trees the only promise of life. Sandor looked outside at the winding path that skirted around the forest towards the rest of the society. The Lannisters lived on one side of him, the Starks on the other, other smatterings of Lords- Baratheons, perhaps- nearby too. _Perhaps I’ll be able to be rid of my title when I sell this place._

Sandor’s family were wealthy, courtesy of the Lannisters for the most part and a very daring move by Sandor’s grandfather that involved the stock exchange and their entire fortune. Through the combined force of the Lannisters and luck, the Cleganes were a part of the society, though only in name. Sandor’s father had forced the children to a few events, and Cersei had offered Sandor a job as a “personal guard” for her son, and that was the extent of their involvement. Sandor had scoffed at Cersei's suggestion- he worked in construction, not as a bodyguard, and he told her as such. No, Sandor was perfectly happy with what he had: a one bedroom apartment on the outskirts of town, his dog Stranger, and his job in construction. Well, the apartment wasn’t ideal- there were a few too many beams for him to smack his head on. And the job, well, it was good work and paid fine, but the hours were variable and it meant he had less time for Stranger. In the past, Sandor had toyed with the idea of starting his own construction company, but he lacked the funds. _I’ve money now, and a project all lined up. If I was my own boss I’d have more time with Stranger._ His gaze flitted out of the window to the row of kennels, all empty now like miniature, rotting caves.

“Fine then,” Brienne said, “There are other ways. I’ve got to get going.”

Sandor turned back to her, shaking foolish thoughts like _‘I could rebuild the kennels in an afternoon, easy’_ out of his mind.

“But so that you know,” she continued, “If you _did_ start your own company-” she held up a hand to stop Sandor’s instinctive refusal- “I’d be there. If you wanted me. And you know Bronn would be too, and some of the others- Hodor, maybe.”

“Don’t think Tormund would take well to me stealing his workers, especially not you.”

Brienne scowled.

“That man-”

“I know,” Sandor said. “You prefer them pretty.”

“It’s not that; I just don’t like him.”

“He’s obsessed with you.”

“He’s ridiculous.”

Sandor shrugged; he could hardly argue with that. Tormund _was_ ridiculous, but he was also a good boss.

“Well,” Brienne said, “Maybe you should take a few days, at least. Mull it over.”

“I’ll think on it.”

Brienne nodded, obviously pleased. She moved towards the door, but before she could leave, a knock sounded from the other side.

“Don’t open-”

Too late. Brienne opened the door.

“We hear there’s a new Lord Clegane.”

If anything could have soured Sandor’s mood further, it was those words, his new title making him instantly furious.

“What do you want?” He scowled, moving into the doorway. One of the men at the door raised his eyebrows, giving Sandor a blatant once-over, whilst the other smiled at Brienne.

“I’m Renly Baratheon, and this is Loras Tyrell.”

_Oh for fucks sake._

“Brienne,” Brienne said, a little breathless. Sandor shot her a look- _really, him?_ \- but she was too busy staring at the man to notice.

“What do you want?” Sandor snapped again.

“We’re here to welcome you to the society.”

“I’m not-” Sandor stopped himself. _It’ll be faster to accept their ‘welcome’ and leave. They’re only here to see if I’m like my brother, and now they can run home to whisper with the other posh cunts about how dreadful I am._ Sandor took a deep breath.

“Yes, welcome” Loras Tyrell echoed. “We hope-”

“Consider me welcomed,” Sandor said, already starting to close the door. _Or I would, if Brienne would get out of the bloody way._

“We hope,” Renly said, utterly unperturbed by Sandor’s obvious fury, “That you will allow us to welcome you formally.” He held out a small envelope, dwarfed in Sandor’s hand. He took it, but only so that he could crumple it in his fist and watch the horror spread across their faces. Then he turned away, storming back to the kitchen and leaving Brienne to mutter hasty apologies.

“They’re gone,” she called a few minutes later. “It’s a ball. The invitation.”

Sandor scoffed.

“Sounds ridiculous.”

“Sounds like an opportunity to see if there’s a market for the estate.”

She had a point.

“Fine. I’ll think about it.”

He didn’t look up to see the satisfaction in Brienne’s gaze. Instead Sandor unfolded the envelope, raising his eyebrows at the absurdly fancy calligraphy. Every letter was curled, from the L of Lord to the E of Clegane. Sandor couldn’t deny that the writing was nice, but it was an envelope- what was the point? Didn’t these nobles have better things to do? He pulled out the card inside. _The Baratheons wish to invite Lord Clegane to a ball held in his honour on Saturday evening, at the hall of Lord Robert Baratheon._ Sandor glanced outside; night was beginning to fall, and he hadn’t seen Stranger since lunchtime. He needed to get back to his apartment. _Saturday evening._ He was working Saturday, but Tormund _had_ mentioned that he hadn’t taken enough time off recently- or ever- so perhaps he ought to. It was like Brienne said- he was there to find out about potential buyers of the estate, nothing more. And if Tormund couldn’t spare Sandor that day, it didn’t matter. Sandor was…. well, perhaps happy would be overdoing it, but he was…. content? No, that wasn’t it. He was _fine._ Yes, he was fine. He would sell the estate, use the money to buy an apartment with higher ceilings and maybe another dog to keep Stranger company, and that would be it. _Nothing needs to change,_ Sandor assured himself. _Nothing needs to change at all._


	2. First Encounter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading- I've been summoning the courage to post my writing online for a long time, and the wonderful response to chapter one was both a huge relief and a big surprise. I don't think I've stopped smiling yet :) I hope you enjoy this next chapter.
> 
> I plan on updating this fic once every couple of days (hopefully), so please let me know if there is a time of day you would prefer (with a timezone), so that I might see if there is a general trend indicating when I should post.
> 
> **Trigger warning for mild violence**
> 
> As always, kudos/feedback is hugely appreciated.

## Chapter Two: First Encounter

###  **Sandor**

Sandor was on edge the entire evening, from the moment he stepped inside the ballroom; it looked horrific, painfully fancy, and some buggering idiot had decided to use candles for lighting. They lined the walls, so instead of lurking close to the walls as he had hoped to, Sandor was forced to sit on one of those ridiculous chairs, too small and delicate for him, with a decorative bow that served absolutely no purpose. He had opted to wear smart trousers and a shirt, but refused a suit jacket; this event was ridiculous enough without a complete suit. Besides, he was in the mood for a fight, and a jacket would only restrict his movement; he had told Renly as much when he muttered his complaints, and that had shut him up. Sandor almost wished he had gone for his usual jeans and a t-shirt, just to anger the bloody idiots at the ball further, to give them something more to whisper about than his ruin of a face. Renly had done what he must have thought was his best, introducing Sandor to a few people, until Sandor had snapped.

“Stop your bloody complaining,” he said.

“Lord Clegane, if you’d just _smile_ , or perhaps greet--”

“Enough.”

“Perhaps after the speech-”

“ _Speech?_ If you give a speech-”

“I am going to-”

“I wasn’t finished.” Sandor lowered his voice. “If you give a speech, make it good; they’ll be the last words you say before I smear your entrails all over the ground.”

With that he had left Renly, settling himself in a dark corner and glaring daggers at anyone who dared to come too close to him. Now he was just bored, seething in the corner on a too-small chair. Only one person had tried to talk to Sandor so far, a smarmy man who walked as if he was trying to sashay across the room. Sandor spotted his approach from across the ballroom. The man was hard to miss, draped in silks and _are those slippers?_ Gods, he looked bizarre, the candlelight shining off his bald head.

“I’ve heard much of you, Lord Clegane,” the man said, holding out a hand as if Sandor might like to kiss it. “It is an honour to meet you.” His voice was as slippery as the silks he wore.

Sandor shot him a look of disgust, but remembered why he was there and debated telling him about selling the estate. Something about the man’s manner told Sandor not to trust him and he obeyed his instincts. _I’ll find out more before announcing my intentions._

“So,” Sandor said, cutting off whatever the man was rambling about, “I take it you’ve got money, if you’re here.”

“Ah, my Lord, I do hold a wealth of information.”

“Bugger that, what would I care for your secrets?”

The man gave him a condescending look, but stopped when he took in Sandor’s clenched fists.

“You’re new to the society; I might take you under my wing, as it were. To survive-”

“I don’t need your bloody advice.” _This man is useless._ “Bugger off.”

The man did, much to Sandor’s relief, with more simpering and courtesies. Sandor slumped further down the chair as the man disappeared in a haze of lavender and perfume. _What a waste of time._ He surveyed the room, his eyes landing on a girl also seated, across the other side of the ballroom, staring at him. She stood, and Sandor groaned audibly, half-tempted to escape outside through a side door. _Or a window. At this rate I’ll do anything to get out of here._

But Sandor was not one to run from little girls, so he simply watched as she weaved her way through the crowds. For a moment he thought the girl might be intercepted when a gangly boy approached her, holding out a hand. He was clearly hoping for a dance, but the girl gave him such a withering glare that Sandor almost smiled- her impressive scowl made up for what she lacked in height. But then he remembered that she was approaching him- no, she was _right in front of him now,_ and his face settled back into a frown. The girl stared at him, arms folded, looking at Sandor as if he had killed her family, a gaze so full of loathing that Sandor couldn’t help but feel offended.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Arya,” the girl said. “You’re Lord Sandor Clegane.”

Sandor bristled at the use of his full name; he wasn’t sure what he hated more, his title or his surname.

“How do you know--” he broke off with a sigh. “This bloody ball is a welcome,” he muttered. “‘Course you know who I am.” _Not to mention that my ruined face is probably the talk of this society._ But the girl was shaking her head.

“This might be a ball to welcome you,” she said, “But everyone here knows it's a mummers show, that it's an opportunity to sell my sister.”

Her sister. That must be… Sandor frowned. _‘We’re expecting a match for one of the girls…’_ Which guest had told him that? He hadn’t been paying attention. Renly had whispered something about wolves which Sandor hadn’t bothered listening to….

“She-wolf,” Sandor muttered, the lessons of his childhood shoving their way to the surface. The wolves were the Starks. “You’re uh, a Stark.”

The girl sighed heavily.

“You're as new to this as they claim.” She stared at him for a long moment, displeasure evident on her face, before muttering something he couldn’t quite make out. It sounded almost like _‘best chance we’ve got’;_ but if that was true, they were in a hell of a situation.

“They're going to sell her,” the she-wolf- Arya- said. “Sansa.”

Sansa. The name wasn't unlike his own. He bit back a retort - _if she's anything like you, loud and vicious, I doubt anyone will want to buy her,_ but he held back. The despair in the girl's expression made him pause, reminded him of himself, if he was honest.

“You're not the only one that wears a mask,” the Elder Brother had said to him once.

Sandor had scoffed. Community service was a joke, and the mandatory anger management sessions were near as bad as prison. Sandor had contradicted everything that the Elder Brother said; it was their first meeting and he had snarled back:

“If this face was a fucking mask, I would've taken it off years ago.”

Elder brother had just smiled, infuriating Sandor further. Now, years later, Sandor understood those words, though he would never admit it. Behind the girl’s scowl, hidden by her clenched jaw, were the signs of fear: nervous worrying of her lips with her teeth, and the clenching and unclenching of her hands. If she was so nervous around him, why had she come to talk? Her lack of courtesy suggested that she was desperate- but for what?

“Hey,” she snapped, bringing his attention back to her words. Gods, had she been speaking all this time? Sandor made sure his features were settled into a scowl, though really, what was the point, since it clearly wasn't going to be enough to scare her away?

“What?” He snapped.

“Why've you not taken a wife?”

Sandor couldn't help but gape at her. _The girl’s soft in the head, simple, she has to be. Explains why she isn't afraid of me._

“Well?”

Sandor snapped. Perhaps it was the absurdity of the question, or perhaps it was the sheer contrast between the austerity of this ball and the outright questioning from Arya. Regardless, Sandor snapped, his eyes narrowing and his voice settling into a hiss.

“Seven hells, why do you think? Who would want this face?”

The girl rolled her eyes like _he_ was the fool, and Sandor found himself gaping at her again.

“You think your brother's wife- or _wives,_ I should say- wanted him, hm?”

“I'm not my brother,” Sandor growled. Not that he expected her to believe him. He might be shorter than his brother was, but he was easily the tallest in the room, and the mess of scars made for an appearance as fearsome as Gregor’s. if not more so.

“But-”

“What would you have me do, kidnap some poor cunt like your ancestors would?”

He meant for the words to hurt her, but though her eyes narrowed, Arya maintained her composure- what little she had, anyway.

“Of course not. That's an old tradition, we don't practice it any more.”

“Moved on to better ways?” The sarcasm was heavy in Sandor’s voice.

“Yeah,” Arya said, matching his tone. “Now we sell the girls instead.”

“How's that even legal? Shouldn’t be….” Sandor muttered. This place made his head hurt.

“We can agree on that, at least. My parents will sell her to Joff or Ramsay.” She shivered.

“So? What's it to me? Am I meant to know or care who they are?”

“They'll need approval from Old Nan, but....” Aryas gaze hardened. “Joffrey and Ramsay are terrible.”

“So what?”

“They're as bad as your brother.”

Sandor laughed loudly, not caring that the sound was as harsh as silverware scraping over a dish, as bitter as rotting seeds. Arya took a step back, her eyes widening for an instant. Then her fingers curled into fists again.

“How dare you? You think it's funny, what they'll do to her? Ramsay's even worse than Joffrey, if this match is made his father is sure to legitimise him and he'll--” Arya broke off, muttering a string of curses under her breath that had even Sandor raising his good eyebrow. 

“If Ramsay’s no good she can have Joffrey instead then,” he muttered.

“Clearly you've not met Joffrey,” Arya spat.

“Seven hells, what do you want? Tell her not to accept it.”

“Sansas too good, she'll accept any proposal in a heartbeat if mother tells her to.”

 _Sansa._ There was that name again. 

“If she's like you she'll be fine.” He hadn't meant it as a compliment, but Aryas mouth twitched upwards for a moment in a wry smile.

“She's not,” she said, ”And it's because of me that she won't be fine.”

“Nothing I can do about it,” Sandor said.

“That’s not quite true.”

“Careful, _girl,_ it sounds like you’re suggesting _I_ marry her.”

“And if I am?”

Sandor ignored her; this place wasn’t right. He didn't like the tightness in his chest; he didn't like the music, the silverware, the too small glasses and dainty little chairs. He didn't like the selling of girls, the stares, the comparison to his brother. He didn't like his suit, he didn't like this stupid girl, and he especially didn't like the feeling of hopelessness that he thought he had crushed down. Clearly some semblance of hopelessness remained, since despair was now rearing its head. Elder Brother would say that the very presence of hopelessness meant that hope could be found. Sandow knew this was wrong. He had said the same thing about anger, and he was most certainly incorrect. Being angry wasn’t proof that Sandor could be calm. If anything it demonstrated the opposite, that anger was too easy, that he would never escape it, not for long. If Arya carried on like this, he would snap. Even thinking about it brought his eyes to the bottles of alcohol on the tables. How much champagne until he got drunk? He could go from table to table, no one would stop him.... But they might call the police if he did manage to get drunk, and Sandor knew that somehow Elder Brother would find out about getting drunk, and he would lose his chip, everything he had worked for.

 _No. I won’t do it…. I won't drink. I'll.... I'll get some air and calm down._ He hated his own pride at the thought. _I shouldn't be proud, this is pathetic. Fuck this, I need some air, now._ Arya was still standing in front of him, trying to meet his gaze. It was unnerving. Sandor dragged his eyes away from the champagne to glare at her.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“What?” It was more an expression of confusion- he had forgotten Arya, let alone her stupid question- but she took the opportunity to ask again anyway.

“Why haven’t you married?”

“I told you--”

She was shaking her head.

“According to our traditions--”

“I’m not a part of your ridiculous traditions. I’ve only just found a- a- I’ve been a Lord for all of what- three, four days, and you’d have me marry immediately?” It was a weak answer, and Sandor knew he wasn’t getting away with it.

“You _will_ marry at some point, then, will you?”

Sandor decided he could not put up with any more of Arya’s bullshit.

“No,” he said. ”I won’t.”

 _Does champagne even count as alcohol? If I’m losing my chip, it had better be to whiskey, or vodka, or--- Gods, I’m thirsty._ Sandor stood up.

“Bugger off,” he said, hating how the words caught in his throat.

Arya’s gaze followed his as he stood, until her head was tilted so far backwards that it was a wonder her neck didn’t snap.

“Wait, listen--”

Sandor strode towards a side door, ignoring Arya as she shouted after him.

“Well then fuck y----”

“Arya!”

 _That must be her mother,_ Sandor thought, hearing the woman's voice, shrill with horror. _Good, she’ll keep the she-wolf away from me._

“What are you doing?”

 _Gods, her voice was sickeningly piercing._ Sandor walked faster. He wrenched the door open---

“Arya, have you seen--”

\--and closed it behind him with a bang, breathing heavily on the other side.

 _I’m out,_ Sandor thought. _Out of that gods-forsaken place._ He continued to breathe deeply, his back against the door, hands reaching behind him to brush against the bricks, because though he denied it, there was something grounding about the feel of something under his hands. Still, Sandor was far from calm, cursing the Elder Brother as he walked around the back of the ballroom, faint orchestral music still cursing his ears. When Sandor had told the Elder Brother about the ball, the older man had given his usual advice of approaching the situation without tenseness.

“I don’t see how the fuck that’s possible,” Sandor had said, and he felt it again now, hot fury and regret. Why should he have to deal with this? That girl wasn’t his problem, and neither was her sister, and even if he sold the estate for far less than it was worth, it didn’t matter. Sandor had enough money- he’d had enough before the inheritance, so now he had _more_ than enough. _I want this over with._

It was then that the scream sounded, shrill and young and panicked and _abruptly cut off._

“Fuck.”

Sandor ran towards the source of the sound, instinct kicking in. They weren’t hard to find, and Sandor slowed his pace as he walked past. Not that it mattered- the boy he encountered didn’t even notice him until Sandor was an arm length’s away. Only then did he turn, glancing at Sandor with barely concealed disgust, his pouty lips curling upwards in a sneer. He would have looked a perfect cherubim, with a little baby fat still on his cheeks and curly blonde hair, if not for his expression. Oh, and the fact that he was standing over a girl, who was crouched on the floor, utterly defenceless. The boy had trapped her against the wall. Sandor couldn’t see her face, but her hair was bright even in the evening light, long waves matching the red sunset. Without realising it, Sandor had stopped walking, his eyes flickering back to the boy.

“Move along,” the boy said, without a trace of fear in his voice. 

_Interesting; clearly not a fighter judging by his build, and I don't see anyone who could protect him from me. Yet he speaks as if unable to fathom the possibility that I might refuse._ Sandor let his lips curve into a smile, the first real smile he had offered all day, his teeth bared and scars twisted.

“There’s no need to make a scene now,” the boy said, and this time his voice _did_ shake, “Or- or my mother will hear of it.”

“Why would I care about that cunt?”

The boy gasped.

_“I am Lord Joffrey Bar--”_

“Piss off, Joffrey.”

“I will not!” He sounded every bit the petulant child.

Sandor shrugged, curling his hand into a fist. As his fingers cracked the boy paled, staring to back away; when Sandor didn’t approach, he turned and ran, and that was when Sandor moved, reaching the boy easily and spinning him around. He didn’t give him a chance to speak; Sandor’s blood was up now, and he let his fist fly. Joffrey fell immediately, but Sandor didn’t stop- he fell upon him, punching him again and again until a whimper diverted his attention. _Oh shit, the girl._ He gave Joffrey one more hit for good luck, and over the crunch of his breaking nose he heard the girl gasp. Sandor turned to her, his hands raised in surrender, walking slowly. Her eyes widened, her gaze unfocused. Sandor looked at his hands. _Ah, this is a bloody mess. Literally._ No wonder the girl was afraid. She had tears streaming down her face and she struggled to stand, breaths coming in short, sharp gasps.

“Girl, what did he do?”

He hadn’t meant to speak the words aloud. The girl opened her mouth, closed it again, and repeated the process. In the end she only managed a whimper.

“You’ve got to breathe, girl, else-”

Too late. The girl took a step forward, swayed for a second, and then promptly collapsed, her slim figure crumpling as her eyes fluttered shut. Sandor rushed forwards, catching her just before she hit the ground, awkwardly lifting her into his arms.

“I swear, I heard it!”

 _Not another one._ Sandor had had quite enough of nobles for one lifetime. With a sigh he turned to the sound. _Please don’t let it be that bloody wolf-girl-_ But of course it was. Arya and a woman approached him, worry etched on both their faces- and fury on Arya’s, of course. Sandor looked down at the girl in his arms, and then up at the woman. They shared copper hair, lit by the setting sun, and height. _Her mother?_

“Oh! Sansa….” The woman’s voice hardened. “What is going on?”

The question was directed at Sandor, but he ignored it, his gaze flickering between the woman in front of him and the girl in his arms. _Sansa? Did she say…..? This is the she-wolf’s sister?_

“He attacked me!”

It was that blonde swine, staggering around, one hand on his bleeding nose and the other pointing a shaking finger at Sandor. A crowd had gathered now, with the girl’s mother at the helm, accompanied by Arya, her mouth agape. The boy's mother was also there, and Sandor frowned, realising that he recognised her. _Cersei fucking Lannister. So that little cunt must have been Joffrey Lannister, the very same boy she wanted me to guard all those years ago._ Sandor couldn’t help it; he met Cersei’s narrowed eyes and smirked at her.

“You _dog_!”

“What happened?” Arya asked, “Clegane, what--”

“Go and get your father,” Arya’s mother said. _Sansa’s mother too._

“No need,” said a man- her father, presumably- as he appeared beside Arya. “What’s happened?”

“I told you,” Joffrey cried, “It was him- all of it!”

“All of it?” Arya asked. “Bullshit.”

 _“Arya,”_ her mother frowned. _Gods, but she looks a lot like one daughter, and nothing like the other. I wonder if Sansa will be like this when she comes to, all straight-backed and harsh-voiced and impeccable fucking manners. Not that it matters; I won’t be around when she wakes._

No one moved, and Sandor grew increasingly uncomfortable with their stares, as if he was some animal, until understanding finally fell into place; _they really do think of me as some rabid creature, about to tear apart their daughter._ Sandor realised how he must look- six foot eight, with useless Joffrey pointing at him, blood dripping down his face that matched the blood on Sandor’s hands. And of course, Sandor couldn’t forget about the girl in his arms, her hair tickling him even through his sleeves, face slack through unconsciousness, blood bright against the blue of her dress. _Tall, scarred, carrying an unconscious girl in my bloodied hands,_ Sandor thought. _Ah, fuck._


	3. Necessary arrangements; uncomfortable conversations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading, it means so much to me and your comments and kudos are super inspiring.
> 
> The idea of involving Old Nan in the arranging of marriages is taken from "Worse Things" by SnowWhiteKnight (an absolute must-read and I cannot for the life of me figure out how to link it here but all Sansan shippers should read it, it's in my bookmarks).
> 
> This chapter is not my best work, but the next one is from Sansa's POV so I might post that one early to make up for it. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy :)

## Chapter Three: Necessary arrangements; uncomfortable conversations

###  **Sandor**

There was to be a hearing, apparently, to determine what occurred the evening before. Robert Baratheon had told him as much, after Sandor had thrust Sansa into her father’s arms, ignoring the rapid introductions that had occurred. Sandor only turned up after the hearing was over, in case there was one bugger late to leave that could tell him what occurred. If not, he would assume nothing of note had happened. He was in no mood to stand in a hall full of nobles. _I wonder if Sansa told her family about what happened. It’s just as well she won’t be marrying that cunt. Arya said that Ramsay is worse……_ But what was it to him? Sandor parked his motorbike around the side of the hall, not wanting to draw attention to himself if anyone still remained. As he walked, the crunch of gravel under his feet, he could hear voices. He sighed. _If it’s Joffrey I’ll at least get a laugh- I’m not here for the girl. Why would I care about whatever bastard they marry her off to? Nothing I can do about this ridiculous situation, whatever the she-wolf says._

“If money is the only requirement, perhaps _Clegane_ will want to marry her- or buy her, more like.”  
_Speaking of… of course it’s Arya._ Sandor recognised her voice too late, and realised that she had mentioned him a beat later. He stopped walking, resisting the urge to snarl at the family. _She isn’t there,_ he thought, _not that it matters. Only the she-wolf and her parents. Why isn’t the girl here? Is she injured?_

“Lord Clegane, I apologise,” the man- Ned Stark, Sandor remembered, said.

“Perhaps he would,” Catelyn Stark murmured. “Do you have an interest in our daughter, Lord Clegane?"

Sandor gave into instinct then, letting his face settle into a scowl, the closest feeling he knew to coming home. He knew he wasn’t quite answering her question, but she wasn’t saying what she was truly asking. _Do you want to buy our daughter?_ would have been more fitting.

“Course not. It’s a bloody archaic custom,” Sandor said.

Arya nodded, though her eyes narrowed in confusion as she did so, rendering her response an odd mixture of approval and suspicion. It was as if she was trying to suss out his ulterior motives through her glance alone.

“No motives here, you she-wolf,” Sandor snapped.

“Why'd you come?”

He didn’t reply for a long while.

“Good fucking question. Is she alright?” _I’m only asking to change the subject- don’t want them blaming what happened on me._ Arya spoke up before her parents could answer.

“Mother, Father, I would talk to Lord Clegane alone.”

“I do _not_ grant you permission--” Her father started to say.

“Come on then,” Sandor interrupted. He turned on his heel and stalked off, leaving Arya practically jogging to match his pace.

“It won’t be Joffrey; Mother and Father have enough evidence to disregard him, at least, so they’ll likely sell her to Ramsay instead. He’s got less money, but perhaps the match will prompt his father to legitimise him.”

_Straight to the point as usual._

“Was there some trial here earlier?” Sandor asked, ignoring her previous words. “How’d it go?”

“Sansa wouldn’t say anything, but mother and father won’t have her marry him anyway. You’re safe since Joffrey’s wailing was ignored by his father without Sansa to back it up. Cersei hates you though. You should have been here.”

“Cersei- his mother?”

“Yeah.” Arya scowled. “Horrible woman.”

_Sounds like she hasn’t changed. Well, now that’s sorted…_

“How much will he pay for her?”

“Huh?”

“Ramsay.”

“Oh. Less than Joffrey would have, but enough.”

“Enough for what?”

 _“Enough,”_ she said, in a voice that brokered no further discussion.

“I take it she doesn’t like him.”

Arya scoffed. “No one does. Not even his own father."

“Who arranges this shit?” Sandor muttered.

“Usually Old Nan and the mothers, but since Ramsay doesn’t have one, he deals with it personally.

“Why aren’t they marrying _you_ off?”

Arya avoided his gaze, slowing her steps, and Sandor knew she was going to lie.

“I refused.”

“Why doesn’t Sansa?"

“What?”

“Why doesn’t Sansa refuse?”

“Family. Duty. Honour.” Arya said the words like they should mean something. When she earned no response, she continued. “They’re our house’s words. Our mother’s.”

“Gods, you’re all insane.” _Basing their lives on words decided by rotting skeletons._

They had walked back to where Sandor had left his bike, and he didn't much fancy returning to speak with her parents. He had come to ask about the ridiculous hearing, or trial, or whatever, and now he had learnt about that he would go to work and put the estate on the market and return to normal. But first… just to confirm….

“So it’s Ramsay. Sounds like it’s sorted.”

“He’ll kill her.”

Sandor wasn’t sure if Arya was prone to hyperbole, but if she wasn’t….

“Get her to refuse."

“As if.”

"You're her sister-"

"She won't."

“Bugger this.” There was nothing for it; he knew what Arya wanted him to do. “Run back to your parents, girl.”

“But-”

The words tumbled from his mouth unbidden, before they were even thought.

“Tell your mother to come talk to me tomorrow morning.”

The growl of his motorbike roaring into life drowned out her response and masked his own surprised gasp too; she was talking, Sandor could see that much, even as he sped past her. When he glanced in the mirror as he rode away, he could see her running back around the corner. _Oh Gods, what have I done?_

********************************************

The meeting was going as terribly as expected. Apparently, asking someone to visit _tomorrow morning_ meant _before the fucking sun rises._ Sandor hadn’t even dressed, let alone decided what he was going to say, and there she was, Lady Catelyn Stark, looking every inch the proper lady on his doorstep.

“I hardly think that-”

“Gods, woman, speak plainly. If you’re disturbing me before sunrise you had better speak your mind.”

“As you wish, Lord Clegane.”

“Sandor.”

“Wh-”

“My name.”

“It would be improper.”

“As improper as speaking to me when I’m shirtless, or a little more improper?”

Lady Catelyn Stark was rendered speechless on the doorway as Sandor turned away, retreating to his bedroom to get dressed. She didn’t follow for several long minutes, giving Sandor enough time to throw on his clothes and put the kettle on.

“Come on then,” he called. “And you’re not to use my buggering title.”

Catelyn Stark’s pursed lips told Sandor exactly what she thought of his living space. He was currently living in one little room, not much more than a kitchen. He had placed a sofa in there too, so it was technically a kitchen and living room combined- more than enough, though Catelyn Stark clearly disagreed.

“Might I see where you sleep?” Catelyn asked, settling herself on the sofa. Sandor raised his eyebrows, biting back all manner of retorts before settling on the truth.  
“You’re already there.”

The few seconds that followed were bliss, as confusion, surprise, and disgust registered on her face. Catelyn leapt up as if burned. Sandor smirked.

“Coffee?”

“Do you have tea?”

“How’d you take it?”

“Milk, one sugar.” She frowned, as if the next words were hard to say. "Thank you."

She took the mug from him, perching on a chair at the kitchen island, much to Sandor’s amusement.

“Would you have Sansa sleep there, on the sofa with you?”

Sandor choked on his coffee, sending it burning down his throat. He stared at Catelyn wide-eyed. _She has more fire than just in her hair, I see._

“You would need a bed at least. Do you plan on doing this place up?”

_I plan on selling it._

“Never said I wanted your daughter.”

Catelyn’s face crumpled, and her age showed for a moment with the crease of her forehead and twitch of her hand, and the slight _bang_ as she placed the mug down. Exasperation laced her voice.

“Arya said-”

“Wanted to talk, that’s all.”

“Forgive my assumptions.”

“You’ll be selling her to Ramsay, then.”

“If the match is approved as a suitable one, yes, it appears likely that she will marry Ramsay.”

_Approved? Not by Sansa, I expect._

“What … What requirements are there?”

“For Sansa’s husband?”

He nodded, trying not to wince at the phrase. The beginnings of a plan were starting to form in his mind, slow as clockwork but drawing together.

“He would need to be able to afford the match and still be financially stable enough to provide her security and raise a family.”

“How old is she, early twenties?”

“Nineteen.”

Sandor choked on his coffee again.

“Young to have a family,” he muttered. _Far too young for me; she wouldn't agree to the match._

“No younger than when I had my oldest.”

“Isn’t _she_ your oldest?”

Catelyn Stark looked down at her tea and didn’t answer. _Fine. Keep your secrets._

“That’s it? Rich enough to provide security?”

To her credit, Catelyn did blush, and she looked as displeased as Sandor felt.

“The circumstances are regrettable,” she conceded.

“What of age, manner, appearance?”

“I would not have one of Joffrey’s manner.”

“I hear Ramsay’s worse.”

“What are we to do, listen to vile rumours and allow Sansa to enter her twenties unmarried?”

_Yes._

“How much is Ramsay offering?”

“It is not the custom to-”

“Bugger the custom, woman, just tell me.”

She did. _A lot, though certainly not more than I could afford. Still…._

 _“Fuck, that’s so much-_ and for what, your daughter’s-- how could y-”

Sandor was cut off with the scrape of the chair as Catelyn stood, transforming into Lady Stark as she did so, her words cutting and face impassive.

“If you have quite finished insulting--”

“Twenty-eight.”

She blinked.

“I’m twenty eight.”

“Are y-”

"I’ll buy a bed,” he said.

“And the price? Your maximum, if you will, since Ramsay may yet increase his.”

“Double what he’s offering.”

_This is a terrible idea, but perhaps that she-wolf was right, though I’ll not be fool enough to say it to her. What else can I do?_

“You’ll be expected to pay for the wedding, too.”

Sandor snorted; _so transactional._

“And the girl? Does she come with clothes, or must I buy those too?”

Catelyn either missed the sarcasm in his tone or chose to ignore it.

“She will have suitable dresses from her wardrobe, but you would be expected to provide for Sansa, as her husband.”

“Seven hells.” _Is this even legal?_

“If that will be a problem-”

“No problems,” Sandor muttered. “Now what?”

“My husband will wish to meet you.”

“When?”

She looked uncomfortable.

“Can’t do today,” Sandor continued. “Tomorrow?”

“Would the afternoon suit you?”

Sandor shook his head.

“Early morning or late evening.”

“Morning, then. I will let my husband know, and send a letter confirming the meeting.”

“And S- your daughter; what will you tell her?”

“I will tell her nothing, since nothing is decided.”

With that she was gone, leaving Sandor to get ready for work, his limbs somehow heavy despite the panic that should have spurred him into action. He called into work, grateful that Tormund didn’t mind his absence- his exact words were something along the lines of _‘found a wench and don’t want to leave your bed? Can hardly blame you; if I had Brienne….’_ to which Sandor had simply sighed, hanging up the phone. _If only you knew._ Then he poured himself a second cup of coffee, opened his laptop, and started searching for beds. There was a lot to be done.

*****************************************

The next morning Sandor arrived at the Stark’s family estate as promised, his thoughts racing so fast that he didn’t pay attention to where he was being led until the door clicked shut behind him. _I'm buying a girl. I'm buying a girl. This is disgusting. Abhorrent. It's not right it's not fucking right._ He stood in the room, staring at the sickly yellow wallpaper, pacing around the set of sofas. It was as if he had been transported back in time and deposited in some drawing room, all powdered smells and little chairs. And everything was painfully decorative, from the little chairs that looked like too-small footstools to the chandelier above him that looked to be more crystal than light. It reminded Sandor of the ball and his mood soured further; _surely the entire manor can’t be like this? I wasn’t paying attention earlier. This must just be for guests. No one lives like this nowadays. No one could._

“Lord Clegane, it is a pleasure to meet you officially at last.” 

Sandor turned to face the man with a scowl. 

“Skip the flowery language and false titles,” Sandor spat, “None of it’s worth shit. You're selling your daughter.”

With a sigh, the man walked across the room, closed the door and sighed before turning back to Sandor.

“Ned Stark,” he said, offering Sandor a hand. Sandor ignored it, enjoying the displeasure on the man’s face as he was forced to live without the courteous greeting. “I believe we met at the ball.”

“Sandor.”

Ned Stark nodded, then took that ridiculous deep breath that Sandor recognised as _always_ preceding something he didn’t want to hear.

"The bride price is an important traditi--”

“I'll pay the bloody price,” Sandor snapped, “Didn't I agree that with your wife?”

“That is not all that is needed.”

“Great to know that having money isn't the only condition to marrying your daughter.” He layered the sarcasm on thick but Ned Stark brushed straight on, courtesy seemingly preventing him from responding in kind.

“Are you currently married?"

“Of course not.” Sandor would have gestures to his ruin of a face but the man continued.

“Have you ever married?”

_What a ridiculous question._

“No,” Sandor ground out. _And I'd have thought I'd always say that._

"We will have to consult Old Nan. It is rare that a match is made without her guidance.”

“Fine.”

“I understand that you are new to our customs--” Ned Stark broke off. “Did you say--”

“I said it’s fine,” Sandor said. “If I’m to repeat every sentence this will waste twice as much of my time.”

_Not that I’ve anything to do, but he doesn’t need to know that. I could be with Stranger, at least._

“She is willing to marry you,“ Ned Stark said suddenly.

“Who?”

Was Old Nan some fictitious creation; had he consulted her in his head and come to a conclusion? No, hadn’t Arya or someone mentioned her too? Gods, his head hurt.

“Sansa,” Ned Stark said. “Sansa is willing to--”

“She doesn't even know who I am.”

This time the other man barely reacted to Sandor’s interruption.

“She asked about you yesterday, and when my wife suggested you as a…. suitor, she did not seem averse to the idea.”

_Unlike you,_ Sandor thought, _‘Suitor’- you can’t even face the idea of me as her husband. Still…._

“She was not opposed to the idea?”

“She was not,” her father confirmed.

_Odd- he does not appear to be lying. Better me than a rapist,_ Sandor thought, _clearly the girl thinks so too._ Fine, he decided. That settled it. He would marry her if she was willing, and if it turned to shit he could ask this old biddy, Old Nan, for a divorce. Annulment. Whatever archaic word they used. Perhaps they had a better policy for a divorcee, perhaps this girl- Sansa, whatever, would have a better life. Not a life with him. One where she could live as a divorcee, however that worked; he doubted her parents would sell her off again, since they seemed insistent on this bride price. Her father seemed too honourable to sell her _twice,_ so if she did marry again, it could even be to someone she liked. No, Sandor was sure their marriage wouldn’t last. It was a farce, but only he and the girl needed to know that.

“I assure you that she remains immaculate; the incident at the ball was not… physical."

There were several beats of silence as the words settled in Sandor’s mind, accompanied with their meaning later still. His anger was immediate.

“ _Not physical?_ ” Sandor hissed. “He had her pressed up against a wall."

“I only meant--”

“Oh, I know _exactly_ what you meant. Hells, you’re near as bad as that Joffrey,” Sandor snarled, “What would that matter? Gods--”

He broke off at Ned Stark’s expression; he was staring at Sandor open mouthed, looking almost afraid at the prospect that Sandor might not value his daughter’s virginity. Sandor took a deep breath.

“I would speak with her,” he said. _I ought to explain my idea; I don’t want her walking down the aisle thinking this is permanent- she might die from fright when she sees me._

“We would be happy to arrange an attended meeting."

“ _Attended?_ I can’t spend time with my- with her alone?”

“Not until you’re married.”

Sandor made no attempt to hide his disgust, enjoying Ned Stark’s discomfort, his inability to keep his gaze from straying across to the mess of scars on Sandor’s left side as they twisted with his scowl. But to his credit, the man recovered quicker than most, averting his gaze and clearing his throat.

“Do you wish for an attended meeting?”

“No,” Sandor snapped. There was no point, if some cursed idiot was going to be there the entire time. He would have to explain to her after the wedding, and hope she wasn’t like her sister, or else he might emerge with a few more scars.

“Do you wish to send a letter?” Ned Stark pressed. “Providing Old Nan approves the match, we will commence preparations immediately.”

“No,” Sandor said again. Letters could be intercepted far too easily; to announce their wedding as a farce via letter would be too risky. “Just…..”

“Just....?”

“Just tell Sansa I’ll see her at the altar.”


	4. It is what we make of it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW, over 100 kudos?! That was one of my main aims, that 100 people might enjoy this- I didn't think I would hit it in a month, let alone less than a week! I am very glad that people seem to be enjoying this; all the feedback makes me absurdly happy so thank you all :)
> 
> As promised, here is Chapter Four a bit earlier than I intended to post it- the first Sansa chapter. The next chapter will be the wedding, probably up in a couple of days. Thanks for reading and I'm excited to hear what you think!
> 
> **Trigger warning for memory/flashback of attempted sexual assault**

## Chapter Four: It is what we make of it

###  **Sansa**

“It wasn’t him!” Arya had shouted, “It wasn’t him, I was speaking with him at the ball. It was Joffrey.”

Cersei rounded on her.

“ _My_ Joffrey--”

“Sansa, tell them,” Arya said.

Sansa said nothing, even when Robert Baratheon prompted her. Her hands and feet were tingling and the rest of her was numb, weighed down by fear and a lack of sleep. She thought that if she spoke her voice would break, and then she would start crying and never stop. She hadn’t listened to a word at the hearing; all she knew was that some gallant man, a huge shadow with a deep rasping voice, had come and saved her from Joffrey. But, not knowing what her parents planned for her wedding, she stayed silent, fearing that she might damage their name further. To admit that Joffrey had trapped her against the wall would only fuel more vile rumours, but every time Sansa heard him speak she flinched and knew she couldn’t possibly lie. Before the hearing was over, they excused her to her bedchambers and Sansa slept through an entire day, waking to the next dawn. Her dreams were plagued by Joffrey’s whispered promises and dark shadows. Sometimes the shadows would chase him off only to pin her back against the wall, leaving her without air to breathe. Other times the shadow would approach and morph into a dog, a low growl enough to send Joffrey running. Sansa awoke with hunger and nerves twisting her stomach, with her parents gathered around her bed.

“I am sure you will find yourself well enough to dress today,” her mother said, and Sansa offered her a weak smile.

“Yes, mother.” It would probably do her good to stop wallowing.

“We won’t have you marry Joffrey,” her father said. “Perhaps Ramsay since he will likely be legitimised and even if he is not……” _He can afford a good bride price; not as good as the Lannisters, but good nonetheless._

“I see.”

“Sansa, what do you think of this?” Her father asked.

“I trust you will make a suitable match for me,” Sansa said.

Her father nodded, her empty words enough to assuage any guilt on his part.

“We will consult Old Nan with our decision--”

“Not yet,” Sansa’s mother said. “Arya claims Lord Clegane has requested a meeting.”

“The new Lord Clegane?” Sansa asked.

She had heard tales of his brother and wasn’t sure how much of it she believed. If even a sliver was true, Gregor’s death had hardly been a loss, though a part of her shivered at her own willingness to accept the idea that death could be anything but a tragedy. _I had hoped to meet him at the ball, but now I am reduced to speculation. Perhaps the brothers are like two souls divided, as much opposites as Arya and I. I can only pray that it is so, for if he means to marry me….._

“When will you meet him?”

“This morning,” her mother said. “I shall leave now.”

“Mother?” Sansa called out Catelyn turned to leave. “Mother, what is his name?”

“You will refer to him as Lord Clegane,” her mother said, “Until he becomes otherwise.”

 _Until he becomes my husband,_ Sansa thought with a shiver. The Cleganes may be a minor house, and their estate was in disrepair, but it was rumoured that their funds were such that any Lord Clegane could easily repair the estate. Money was not the issue- it was only intent. _And that certainly suits us, if it is the new Lord Clegane’s intention to marry me._ Sansa dressed quickly to banish the thoughts away, and Arya snuck into her room to break fast with her. She came bustling in, already speaking, claiming that she needed to tell Sansa the truth- or her version of it, at least. Sansa nodded, absorbing information as Arya rattled off basic facts. She learnt that the new Lord Clegane was not as tall as his brother, though still far taller than father, and his face was mangled with-

“Well, he’s the one that found you at the ball. I don’t believe that bullshit about not remembering.”

“That was him? He- he punched Joffrey.”

“I knew you remembered!”

Sansa coloured.

“I'm sorry,” she said, “I- he said-” She looked down.

“Who did?”

“Joffrey…. I could not bring myself to repeat what happened at the hearing.”

“What did he say? I’ll crush him, Sansa, I will.”

“No, Arya, it’s fine.” Sansa tried not to wince at the memory. Joffrey had touched her, tracing his hand up her thigh, and he had backed her up to the wall. It was his words…. Well, if she really thought about it, the words weren’t anything new, and _that_ was what chilled Sansa. They were as if her mother was speaking with her, only her advice was laced with venom and details. _Obey your husband_ bled into _you’ll do all I want,_ and _lie still as he does his duty_ was twisted into _I’ll tie you down when I--_ Sansa looked down at her hands and willed her breathing to slow. Two of her nails were chipped. She twisted her fingers together, then tugged them apart and tried to relax. It didn’t work.

“What were you going to say about his face?”

“Well, you’ve seen him; it’s all twisted with those dreadful scars, half of his face, gone.”

“ _Gone?_ ”

“Looks melted,” Arya said. “You didn’t notice?”

“It was dark; I saw only a shadow.”

“Oh.” Arya grimaced.

“Arya, have you spoken with him, Lord Clegane? I- he- Although I do trust Old Nan’s guidance, I would appreciate--”

“I don’t know,” Arya said, cutting Sansa off as she fumbled for the right words. “I don’t know if he’s good, but he certainly isn’t interested in politics. He won’t use our name to climb. Hates the society nearly as much as I do. He…. Sandor would be better than Ramsay, I believe.”

“Sandor,” Sansa echoed. She had not heard his name before, and a ghost of a smile slipped onto her face. _Should we name our children Samwell or Stefan or Saffron we might all have similar names._ She jumped at her own intrusive thought.

“Sansa?”

“I shall not worry,” Sansa said, regaining her composure, “For I am sure that an arrangement can be made.”

“You don’t have to-”

“I do, Arya. Someone has to.”

“Because I won’t,” she said. “That’s what you mean.”

“No, I-- there’s no other way.”

“There is. We'll find one.”

Sansa shook her head, reaching for Arya's hands across the table. Arya pulled away, standing up.

“This is the best way,” Sansa said. “I must do my best to bring honour to our name. This way, our family can maintain our reputation and clear our debts without any compromise to our--”

“Without any compromise?!” Arya shouted. She stood up abruptly, knocking her stool backwards. “ _You’re_ the compromise. Your _freedom_ , Sansa.”

“I have faith in the Gods to make me a suitable match,” Sansa said. _I do. My voice is shaking from the ordeal with Joffrey, nothing more. I do not doubt that this will work out. The Gods have a plan…. If I feel doubt, I shall speak with Old Nan. I am certain she will assuage my fears- or she would, should I have any._

“Family, duty, honour,” Arya said, the words laced with disgust. “For your sake, I hope he’s different to his brother.”

“So do I,” Sansa said, but Arya had already left, the slam of the door left in her wake. _Lady Sansa Clegane_ , she mused. The words sounded strange, spoken in a harsh rasping voice in her memory that made her shiver. Sansa shook it from her mind and stood up, making her way to her mirror. The glass was clouded with age. She straightened her back, smoothed down her skirts, and shook out her hair.

“Lady Sansa Clegane. Lord Sand--”

A knock sounded at the door and Sansa whirled around, a gasp of surprise escaping her throat. _Why am I embarrassed? I was doing nothing, absolutely nothing._ She shot a frown at the mirror as if she could blame the reflection.

“Please enter.”

Her father’s face appeared in the doorway.

“Your mother has spoken with Lord Clegane,” he said.

 _Sandor,_ Sansa thought. _Lord Sandor Clegane._

“So soon….thank you for letting me know.”

“Old Nan will soon approve a match. I’ll let your mother tell you who you’re to marry”

Sansa sucked in a breath, loud in the quiet of her bedchambers. This time, when she spoke, her voice was marginally quieter.

“I see.”

“Should you wish to speak with Old Nan, I suggest you do so soon, for we will start preparations otherwise.”

Her father moved to walk away.

“Father?”

“Yes, lemoncake?”

“Was it enough? Do you think we’ll get enough?”

“More than enough,” he said, with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Old Nan has approved a match,” Sansa’s mother told her.

They were eating together in Sansa’s bedchambers, a lapse in propriety rarely offered without a condition, and Sansa’s mother had thrown the reason out early. _I have not even begun to eat yet,_ Sansa thought, looking down at her plate in sadness. _I’ll certainly not be able to eat once the details of my impending marriage are revealed. I knew it was soon to happen, but not with whom, only that it is likely Ramsay or Lord Clegane. Usually it better to take the known evil- Ramsay- but given what I have heard of him, I will make an exception and hope for Lord Clegane._

“Who am I to marry?”

“Lord Clegane.”

Sansa dropped her butter knife with a sharp intake of breath. It clattered on the side of the plate, but she didn’t notice, only sat back, forgetting her posture.

“I see.”

“I would offer you some advice, as your mother.”

“Of course,” Sansa said, her words little more than a murmur.

“I do not know much of his character, but Old Nan has approved the match, and Lord Clegane has spoken both to your father and I.”

“What of his character were you able to discern?”

“As I said, he was rather…. stoic. But he is…. a man, and I can caution you on what to expect, most especially on your wedding night and on the times to follow when he may want you.”

Sansa nodded. Her mother’s tone was utterly empty and it frightened her. _I am not a child; I’m a woman, and very nearly a wedded one at that. I will be brave._

“Thank you, mother, I would appreciate that.”

Her mother offered Sansa a terse smile; she was always able to see through her daughter’s courtesies. A long pause followed before she spoke, in that same matter of fact voice that made Sansa repress a shudder.

“It will hurt the first time. A woman may find her pleasure but I- you have no reason to expect such consideration from him. Perhaps with time….. But you must obey him, no matter _what_ he asks for, no matter _when_ he asks for it. Do not deny him, for I know not how his anger may manifest. You could suggest a few days alone during you moonblood, but it is within his rights to refuse you.” Panic was clawing its way up Sansa’s throat but her mother continued. “You are a dutiful daughter and you will be a dutiful wife. Remember that as he takes you, and think of the children you will have. I do not believe he will hurt you in another way, though he may be rough. Through this marriage we will have security, not only for you, but through your bride price, the entire family.”

“Yes, mother.”

Sansa looked down to her hands, fisting the material of her dress in her lap. _Robb has cost us dearly in his departure,_ Sansa thought, not without bitterness. _How we have fallen! First there were the funds for a private investigator to find Lyanna, placing a dent in our resources, as fruitless as the search was. Then there was Robb’s departure, his taking of his inheritance and his elopement, and now most recently Bran’s private healthcare. We might downsize and live a comfortable life, but that is not to happen; to give up our status in the society would be ridiculous, especially when the use of a bride price is very much a suitable option, if only for me and not Arya. Robb has abandoned us; Arya has ruined her reputation on purpose, and Bran will never bear children. It will be a decade until Rickon can marry, and so it is up to me to keep us going through my marriage._

She was glad her father refused to marry her to Joffrey, and she suspected it was due in part to Joffrey's father Robert. Why Robert would refuse the match, given his closeness with her father, Sansa could not begin to guess. She had only heard the rumours of divorce, but that would be so much a scandal, and surely there was no possibility of annulment, given that they Cersei and Robert shared children? Regardless, she was not to marry Joffrey, and for that she could feel only relief.

In fact, if nothing else, Lord Clegane would ensure Joffrey was kept far away from her. Joffreypaled in significance to the man, and Sansa’s mind fled to the night of the ball. One moment Joffrey was whispering lewd threats into her ear, his hand on the wall, creeping closer to her where he had penned her in, quivering on the ground….. and the next instant he was gone, his place taken by a shadow, pummeling Joffrey to dust. Sansa would have been lying if she denied feeling afraid; she was not a fool- she knew that the stranger may as well be _the_ stranger for all the safety he promised. His height and strength could only serve to hurt her further. But then he spoke:

“Girl, what did he do?”

And his voice held only slight despair and caution, and anger and disgust too, but Sansa knew that those weren't intended for her. She truly tried to speak, rising from the ground, but the exhaustion and panic hit her full force as she stood, and she fainted. The last she had seen of her soon-to-be husband was his form moving forward with surprising grace for his size to catch her before she even knew she was falling.

It was like something taken from the books of her childhood- a fairy tale, with the princess rescued from a dragon by a gallant knight. But Sansa could not remember any details in her stories about why the princess needed rescuing. Yes, there was a girl, and a dragon- or in this case, a lion- but never were the threats recorded in the tales, never the blow to the stomach that Joffrey had given her, nor his claws digging into her arm, nor the hand up her leg, nor his promise to _fuck you all night, as you cry and beg for me to stop_. But the saving part, that had gone well; Lord Clegane would protect her, and Sansa would be kind and patient in marriage so as not to anger him, and she would love their children when she bore them. It was only this uncertainty that unsettled her; would the marriage bed be dull and boring as her Septa told her? Was it truly good only for a few women as her mother said, with a sympathetic smile that told Sansa she had not been chosen for it? Worse still, would it be as Joffrey had told her- painful enough that she would beg for the end?

Lord Clegane was certainly stronger than Joffrey, and Sansa held no doubt that he could make it terrible, if he wished. She dismissed the thought quickly; _my parents, Old Nan, and even Arya (to an extent) all approve. It would not be courteous to assume the worst in a man I've only met once, a man that helped me- saved me\- on one the one occasion we met. When I know what to expect, all will be well, and I will adjust to a new routine. I will be still as he does his duty, as Septa Mordane commands, and I will obey him, as I ought to, as mother says. I will ensure I do my best so that he finds his pleasure. I do not believe him to be cruel, not without a reason, or else he would have taken Joffrey’s place immediately and done the same to me, or worse._ Joffrey had held her arms tight above her head, pressing his body against her. Sansa had fought at once, well aware of what was at stake, but after a moment of fruitless struggling a dreadful slowness had overtaken her, shutting her throat and weighing down her blood. She had frozen, her trembling legs bringing her to the ground, and Joffrey's leer had followed, grinning his satisfaction at her submission.

 _It is not Joffrey I am marrying. I will not think of him- not for another second. He holds no power over me now. It is only my husband that will own me, and he is not Joffrey, so I will be a dutiful wife; it should not be too difficult. He must want me at least a little, since we are to be wed._ The thought gave Sansa confidence. _This marriage is what we make of it, after all,_ Sansa thought, with vague optimism. She would not allow hope to bloom in her chest, not yet, but she clutched the promise that she could forge a strong marriage with Lord Clegane.


	5. Married Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOAH, 1000+ HITS? this is so amazing in just a week, I never expected this level of support- yet another reason why sansan shippers are the best :) Thank you so, so much. Sorry this chapter is a little late, I had huge issues with formatting.
> 
> As usual, I hope you enjoy and I am looking forward to hearing your thoughts!
> 
> **Trigger warning for mild dub-con**

## Chapter Five: Married man

### Sandor

 _This wedding is a farce already,_ Sandor thought bitterly. _Why are those Starks pretending it’s any more than a mummer’s show? And whose bloody idea was it to put me in a buggering suit? And what am I meant to do with the useless bride’s cloak? Do they seriously expect me to talk to a tree?_ When Ned Stark had asked him which Gods he kept, Sandor had scoffed, leaving the planning of the ceremony to Sansa’s family, which he now regretted. He should have insisted on an entirely modern wedding, held in a registry, not whatever this was. Perhaps the only upside was that he could see Sansa enter from a mile away, her dress as pale as the moon. Under the cover of night she looked like a ghost, pale and practically floating, and if not for her bright hair Sandor might not have believed she was alive. _Gods, but she can glide even in a forest._ Ned Stark led her up the aisle, and Sandor realised that his bride was _tall;_ dwarfed by him, but most were; next to her father, however….. _She’s tall. And beautiful._ He wanted this over with, counting the seconds as she walked down the aisle.

_Too many people,_ Sandor thought, _and all of them likely hate me. Good._ He remembered his sister’s wedding, so untraditional, sticking to no faith at all. The groom had picked up Sandor’s sister and carried her down the aisle, with the cheers of the guests as a substitute to music. It had been beautiful, a hot day in summer and Sandor had taken off his jacket, thankful that he wasn’t wearing a suit but _this is so grotesquely different._ Even in the autumn breeze he was uncomfortably hot under Sansa’s gaze. He had never envisioned his own wedding, but his stomach dropped at the thought that Sansa must have, that this must be so vastly different to what she wanted. _But her parents insisted she was not opposed to the idea- better me than that bloody bastard Ramsay._ He looked at her and found her staring openly at him, but she looked down as soon as their eyes met, quick enough to offer him a glimpse of bright blue eyes, barely muted by the night. Sandor looked over her dress, noting the embroidery snaking up the wide skirt to the cinched waist. He didn’t know much about dresses, but he knew that she looked incredible, that the embroidery was likely done by hand, and that his sister would have _loved_ it. But he couldn't possibly tell her about the wedding; she would see it as a betrayal, as his entering into the society that screwed them over so badly as children, that produced and supported monsters like their brother. _He’s dead. I'll not think of him. Not today._

Sandor glanced at Sansa’s face and his breath was stolen by her beauty, but that was nothing compared to the feeling when she raised her eyes to glance at him from under her lashes. He felt like a creep caught leering, but then again, she was observing him too. Then the ceremony was over, and he realised he hadn’t paid attention to any of it, his own voice or hers, but it was time to kiss her. He waited for far too long and almost panicked, almost scowled because she had only met his gaze _once,_ and if she could barely stomach looking at his scars, how could she kiss him? _Fuck, I can’t do this._ Sansa tilted her head to look at him again, and he watched her eyes skim his body before settling on his, her eyes as bright as a summer sky, meeting his greys and crushing them like rocks into ash. _I am nothing beside her._ But her lips curved with the hint of a smile, and she tilted her chin upwards, rising onto her tiptoes, an invitation of sorts. Sandor realised he _still_ hadn’t kissed her, and so he did, ducking his head to meet her lips. He broke away quickly, the kiss briefer than he wanted but just enough that it teetered on the border between chaste and inappropriate. Compared with what he wanted to do with her, well, it was certainly tame-- _no, no._ Sandor barely looked at her afterwards, doing his best to shake away the thoughts and pretend he wasn’t savouring the taste of her on his lips.

At the reception- or feast, as they called it- she was mostly stolen from him to dance and he snarled when someone suggested that _he_ join her. They must have told Sansa, since she didn’t ask him to dance; _or perhaps she despises me and doesn’t want to be near me. Can’t blame her._ Sandor spotted her alone at one point and her eyes skimmed over everyone before resting on him, dancing over his form. When she noticed that he was looking at her, Sandor could have sworn her cheeks reddened slightly, her eyes widening. Then she offered him a tiny smile, so timid and innocent, without even a hint of malice or deception- he almost returned it but remembered what that would do to his scars, contorting his ruined face further, so they just kept watching each other across the room, neither wanting to ruin the moment. Sandor did his best to keep his face entirely neutral, though his palms were sweaty and his heart uncomfortably loud.

“Hello.”

He turned at the interruption, ready to swear at whoever it was but he could see Sansa still watching him and saw that it was her brother, not the one that was scampering until tables like a wild thing nor the half-brother skulking in the corner. No, it was the stoic one, in a wheelchair, with the kind of perpetual darkness hanging around him that reminded Sandor of his sister’s pessimism around the time she first got _her_ chair. _I wonder how long he’s had his for._

“You're her brother,” Sandor said, at a loss for what else to say. “Saw you at the ball.”

“Bran.”

“Sandor.”

“You’ve not been to see her.”

“Sansa?” Her name felt heavy, clumsy as it tipped off his lips, too delicate to be uttered by the likes of him.

“Old Nan.”

Sandor snorted. “Heard she approved; good enough for your parents.”

“I heard what you paid. You perhaps could have gotten away with less, a lot less. You didn’t bargain.”

_Does he spend his time listening in at doorways?_

Something in the boy's tone struck a chord with Sandor and he scowled, perhaps because Bran’s words reminded him that despite his own reasoning, he really had no reason to care about this one girl, not the extent that he did. Bran continued:

“I’m- I’m crippled, and Arya’s Arya. The Starks aren’t what we once were. You could have-”

“ _I_ could have afforded less, but _your family_ couldn’t have. Besides, what’re you trying to do? Convince me to get an annulment already?”

Bran said nothing and Sandor continued to stewin silence, pretending that’s why he gave so much for her, but Bran looked at him with something akin to awe at his words, a glance only slightly tainted with suspicion, and Sandor relented to his natural side, the side that Elder Brother called ‘a defensive mask’. “Anyway,” he said, “I didn’t know of your family- of you, of Arya, of anything.”

“Of Robb.”

“Who the hell-- ah, what does it matter?”

“You really didn’t know,” Bran muttered.

“Aye boy, I didn’t know, and perhaps if I had, I’d have paid less.”

The lie tasted bitter in his mouth, but it was what the boy expected to hear so maybe it would stop his bothering. But the bitterness was nothing compared with the jolt Sandor felt when he heard a slight gasp from behind him.

Sandor turned and _of course it’s her all beautiful again close up,_ trying to compose herself though her hands were shaking by her side.

“Lady Sansa,” he said, because he might be an arsehole but _I won’t embarrass the girl in front of her family. Marrying me must shame her enough._

“My Lord,” she said- with a steady voice, somehow- “I believe we are to leave now, if it pleases you.”

 _Of course the first words she speaks to me are buggering courtesies…._ Sandor stood, again realising how tall she was, up to his shoulders. He realised he was staring, immobile as a statue, when a cough sounded from his side. Arya was standing there, Bran having left in silence, already wheeling himself halfway across the hall.

“You’re meant to take her hand and lead her out,” Arya muttered.

“Arya!” Sansa was mortified and Sandor adored the blush painting her cheeks. She addressed him, cheeks flaming as red as her hair. “I apologise, my Lord, you do not hav--”

Sandor cut her off with a chuckle, amused by the dichotomy between her sharpness with her sister and formal courtesies given to him, too caught up in the liquid honey of her voice to be angry at the use of a title. He shook his head, offering Sansa his outstretched hand and she froze for one moment, her eyes flickering up to meet his. She found whatever she was looking for in his eyes, apparently, for she licked her lips- _gods, those lips-_ and then her hand was in his, her fingers finding their way into the gaps between his like it was the most natural thing, as if she had done this a million times before. Sandor realised he had never held a girl's hand, not that it mattered, because _this means nothing. It is obligation that makes her do it, as Arya said, and it is obligation that draws her close as we walk, obligation that keeps a faint smile on her face, that makes her squeeze my hand tight and not let go even when I loosen my grip….._ Sandor walked swiftly from the hall, not daring to look at her, and then they were free in the night air, free to walk the distance back to his estate, his temporary home.

They left the hall and walked down the stairs, and Sandor felt Sansa’s grip tighten suddenly. The unmistakable hiss of tearing fabric punctured the silent night air and he swore, catching Sansa as she tripped. _I was walking too fast._ They breathed fast and heavy and loud in the air, suddenly close, her arms wrapped around his neck.

“Your dress,” he said, and then, because it was his fault: “Sorry.”

“Oh.” Her voice was little more than a squeak of surprise. Her arms were still tight around his neck, and Sandor told himself that _that_ was why he couldn’t breathe, that it wasn’t because of her body pressed against his. Sansa didn’t let go immediately, didn’t move at all until Sandor steadied her, making sure that she was upright, loosening his grip on her waist. Only then did she unwind her hands from him- _why isn’t she moving away?_

“It is no matter, my Lord,” Sansa finally said, her voice breathy- from the exertion of nearly falling, or the stress of a brute like him touching her, he wasn’t sure which- “For if we were to have the bedding it would be in a far worse state.”

“Are you sorry I refused that?” He had no intention of bedding her so why did he ask?

“No,” Sansa said, and her voice carried such sudden vehemence that Sandor failed to hide his surprise. Sansa blushed easily, mistaking his reaction for disapproval perhaps. She averted her gaze and finally stepped away from him- a bit _too_ far away, since she teetered on the edge of a step once more. Sandor reached out and grabbed her arm as gently as possibly, though he still earned a surprised little gasp.

“Careful.”

“Thank you.”

She was still breathless, but quickly reverted back to her courteous voice as they resumed their descent down the stairs. “The, um, bedding, though it is an important tradition--”

Without the heat of her body near his or her slender fingers between his own the air was biting cold, and Sandor’s irritation flared up suddenly in response.

“You’re like a little summer bird, aren't you? Chirping your courtesies to anyone that'll listen. Tell me without the flowery language. Tell me what you really think, little bird.” The nickname escaped his mouth and Sandor panicked, even more perturbed to find that he was worrying about Sansa’s reaction to it. _Perhaps she isn’t as traditional as she seems. We might as well find common ground, so that we can get along until we figure out a way to end this farce. Speaking of, I had better explain that._

“I do not believe there is a purpose to it,” Sansa said, and Sandor realised she was still talking about the bedding, “At least, there does not seem a purpose to those being married. I have always thought that mayhaps---” She broke off. “Well…. it’s degradiging, is it not? It ruins perfectly good outfits that could otherwise be repurposed.”

Sandor snorted: _degrading?_ Wasn’t all of this degrading? Instead of pointing that out, he echoed her words.

“Repurposed?”

“I like to sew, my Lord. I would remake my wedding dress into something new, since there is so much fabric, or I would mend your clothes, if you wish it.”

Sandor gave a noncommittal grunt. Her offer seemed genuine from the happy lilt as she spoke, but to reply in the affirmative would feel too domestic. Sandor wriggled his toes in his shoes, knowing he was wearing the only pair of socks not entirely worn through and riddled with thin patches and outright holes in some areas. These socks were the only ones he owned that were still intact, and that’s only because they were a gift for his birthday, not yet a year ago. He hadn’t had someone to take care of him since his sister, and now she had a family of her own. _I haven’t seen her in a month,_ Sandor realised, when she had tutted at his worn out clothes, mounting pile of dirty dishes and lack of fresh food in his fridge. She had even complained at the worn soles of his shoes, but that was her way of caring. _Sansa doesn’t care,_ he reminded himself, _not like that. With her it’s obligation,_ and that thought lessened the tightness in his chest somewhat, because if Sansa didn’t care it was so much easier not to care either.

When they reached the door Sansa gave him the briefest of smiles and a very quiet _thank you_. 

“They brought your things already,” Sandor said, leading her into the bedroom. “Um, bed- that’s the- uh, bedroom. Bathroom’s through there.” He gestured. “And kitchen through that door. That’s… it, for now.”

Sandor shrugged off his jacket, promptly depositing it on the ground. He was too tired from maintaining a facade even for a few hours- _how do those buggering nobles manage it?_ He was unbuttoning his shirt when Sansa spoke.

“My Lord, would you mind helping me with my dress?”

She spoke so quietly that it took a long moment for the words to settle in Sandor’s mind, and though he wanted to instantly refute his title, Sansa looked so nervous asking for help that he let it slide. Instead he stood behind her, carefully undoing the zip and cursing it for running past the length of her back. He immediately took a step back, already panicked after his hand brushed her lower back. Sansa let the dress slip from her shoulders, barely waiting a second. Sandor took another step back, trying not to look at her skin.

“I’ll change in the bathroom,” Sandor muttered, turning away and practically running. He took off his shirt before realising he had forgotten to bring a change of clothes in his haste. He settled for brushing his teeth, leaning against the wall until he was certain that enough time had passed for Sansa to have changed and gotten into bed. _If I’m lucky she might already be asleep and any awkward conversation can wait for the morning._

Sandor froze; _what in the seven bloody hells does she think she’s trying to achieve by wearing that dress?_ Her nightgown fell to her mid-thigh, and was far too tight, and far too see-through, and..... Sandor’s shirt fell from his hand. He looked at Sansa- or tried to- fully intending to shout at her, but his gaze found her lips instead, and he saw that she was biting her bottom lip, as if…. as if…..Without fully realising it, Sandor had walked up to her, and she had slowly slid down, until he was right in front of her, her chest heaving, that stupid nightgown even more see through up close. Sandor’s hand brushed her knee and she widened her legs, parting them as if….. _fuck, what is she doing?_ The thought was an undercurrent in Sandor’s mind, overrun by the sight of her pale skin, and the feel of her thigh as he slid his hand up it, so soft and not at all tense until suddenly it _was,_ until she _froze_ and Sandor realised that he was _kneeling on the bloody bed,_ trapping Sansa beneath him. Her eyes were closed and she was moving about as much as a corpse.

“Shit,” Sandor said. He was shirtless, practically on top of her, one hand dangerously far up her legs, his mind buzzing. _Legs that she parted for me._ His hand had virtually reached her underwear, a whisper against his fingertips.

“What happened?” The question slipped out, intended for his own head only, but Sansa answered it anyway.

“Nothing,” she whispered, her voice catching on the two syllables, and Sandor was sure that if she opened her eyes they would be wet with barely-unshed tears. He eased himself off the bed, breathing too heavily, horror numbing his bones. “I’m sorry-”

“Seven hells.”

“Please don't tell my parents,” Sansa blurted, “They need-- “ She broke off, eyes wide, chest heaving. _Too late. Money. It’s money; that stupid buggering bride price. She has no choice. I nearly- I might have- fuck, she’s so young and I’ve no idea what that cunt Joffrey did or said to her, she’s so young and beautiful and courteous and I’m a monster, with a ruin of a face and--_ Sandor swore viciously; he knew that even for all the money in the world she wouldn’t want him, and besides, she wasn’t even seeing any of her bride price. _She tried to lie there silently as I…. for her family. She would have done. She_ _expected_ _me to rape her._

“Fuck this.”

Sandor turned around, practically running out of the bedroom. He stumbled outside, slamming the front door, guilt and disgust twisting his stomach to the point of sickness. It wasn't until he had stormed out and the cold slammed the breath from his lungs, brushing against his chest- his _bare_ chest- that Sandor spoke again.

“Seven bloody hells,” he rasped, realising his mistake. Freezing outside and seething with self-hatred, Sandor listened at the door, cowering outside his own room, waiting long enough that he hoped she was asleep. He crept back inside to the bedroom, edged the door open a crack and scoured the floor for his discarded shirt. _Of course it isn't there- just my luck, I’ll have to go to the wardrobe- where did I put that damned shirt?_ His gaze travelled to her, the girl- she may as well be a child, for all she knew about the marriage bed. It was painfully obvious that he would have been her first, and the idea that her parents had purposefully kept her ‘untouched’ reached a new meaning in Sandor’s mind. _Gods, they would have- no, they_ _have_ _given me complete power over her,_ Sandor thought bitterly. The anger died in his throat as he caught sight of Sansa, fast asleep, confined in a fetal position to one side of the bed. Her hair took up the most space, fanned out behind her like the feathers of a bird, and her body was utterly defenceless, still clad only in a thin nightdress. _And lace underneath,_ Sandor remembered, sickened by his earlier actions once again. But it wasn't her clothes that caught his attention. No, balled in Sansa’s fists was the gleam of white that Sandor had been looking for. Her fingers were bunched in the material, the only tense part of a body otherwise lulled by unconsciousness; her head was tilted downwards as if inhaling its scent.

Sandor remained frozen by the door for several long moments, staring only at her. Sansa Stark- Sandor did not let himself think of her as Sansa Clegane- had _stolen_ his shirt, and clutched it like a blanket as she slept.


	6. Advice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, last chapter I gushed about reaching 1000 hits and now we’re already on 2000!?! Thank you all so much for reading, I’m really happy that people seem to be enjoying this, and I hope you all like this chapter :) chronologically it runs straight on from the last chapter (no time jumps), so it’s still the wedding night.
> 
> Feedback is always welcome- I’ve now put on the option that allows both guests and users to comment (rather than only users) so that’s there if anyone fancies it.
> 
> Next chapter coming in a couple days as usual. Again, thank you all a ton for reading and for all the kudos and comments; it means the world to me :)

****

## Chapter Six: Advice

****

### **Sandor**

Sandor crept to his wardrobe, his eyes never leaving Sansa. He clutched the first piece of fabric his hand touched and retreated quickly from the bedroom. It was only sheer luck that he had grabbed a shirt. He took his coat from beside the door and snuck out into the night.

Though they were only a few days into September, the night air held a chill to it that had Sandor shivering within moments. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and the crinkle of paper made him frown. _Ah, that pathetic letter._ It was from Ned Stark, sent before they were to meet, confirming the time. Sandor had skim-read it to confirm the time and that was all. He brought it out again now and began to read. There was the usual overly fancy introduction, obligatory courtesies and a thanks for his interest in _Lady Sansa…._ There was a confirmation of the time they were to meet, multiple assurances- or perhaps warnings- that nothing had been decided about their marriage yet… and _yes,_ there it was.

_You may wish to visit Old Nan, as we have been consulting her on Lady Sansa’s marriage; you may find her advice useful. Her address is on the reverse of this letter._

Sandor flipped over the letter and sure enough, there it was, the address he hadn’t even bothered to look at before the wedding. He brought out his phone, thankfully still in the pocket of his trousers, and typed in the address. It was a long walk, but he certainly didn’t have anything else to do. Sandor started walking.

When he reached the address Sandor checked several times that he was at the right place. Was Ned Stark playing a trick on him? Was this some stupid test? No, a man with his absurd fixation on honour and propriety would never dare to give Sandor a fake address. Still, this was strange. Instead of some grand estate, or even a large house, Old Nan apparently lived in a cottage. Still, the address was certainly correct, so…..Sandor curled his hand into a fist and hammered at the door.

“Wake up,” he growled. “I need to talk to you.”

“Come in.”

The reply was instantaneous and certainly did not sound like someone who had been woken up. _Is she awake at this time? Weird old woman._ Sandor tried the handle, and finding it unlocked, he pushed the door open and entered as she had bid him to.

“First door on your right,” the voice called.

Sandor found himself pushing open another door and saw the old woman sitting on a rocking chair. A blanket was flung over her knees and it seemed to be a work in progress if the _clack_ of knitting needles was anything to go by. Sandor’s eyes were immediately drawn to a roaring fire next to the chair. He dared not walk towards it so instead stood awkwardly by the door. _Probably should have planned what I’m going to say. Nevermind. She looks so old that I doubt she’ll even know who I am. Introductions then. Yes. Right._ He took a deep breath and released it in a sigh, as slowly as he could. Then he spoke.

“I’m Sandor Clegane. I recently married Sansa Stark.”

Old Nan smiled at him.

“I know that. Very recently.”

“You arranged the marriage. Or approved it, whatever.”

“The gods have gifted me sight, young man.”

“I’m not-” Sandor stopped himself. Compared with her, he supposed he _was_ a young man.

“Are you sure your sight is working?” He asked instead.

The old woman simply laughed, even more wrinkles revealing themselves on her already-lined face.

“I only use my gifts to check if souls are compatible.”

_Sounds like bullshit to me_ , Sandor thought, but again he held back. _Gods but my resolve is being tested._

“I’d like to talk about annulment.” He said.

Well _that_ wiped the smile off her face. When Old Nan spoke again her voice was hard, with a touch of something else- regret, perhaps, or confusion.

“If she was unsatisfactory, a price could perhaps-”

“No.”

“She was not unsatisfactory?”

“It isn’t that.” Sandor said. “We haven’t-” He swallowed. “I haven’t touched her.”

“Then, should you wish it, the money-”

“The money means nothing,” Sandor snarled. _When is this old woman going to get that into her thick skull?_ “They can keep the damned money _and_ the girl.”

“You would give Lady Sansa back for naught? Her bride price was high.”

Sandor closed his eyes briefly.

“You claim she is untouched. Were the marriage to be annulled on that basis, she would be subject to a physical examination. You would have her go through that?”

“Better that than married to me.”

Old Nan smiled and Sandor met her expression with a scowl. _Damn her, damn her straight to the seven hells._ It was the closest thing to a prayer he had thought in a long time.

“Subject to the examination, and the shame, only to be wed again. Better than marriage to you?”

“Yes,” Sandor said, though the venom was rapidly leaving his voice. _An examination? That’s barbaric._

“It would go against the will of the gods.”

_She can’t be serious._ Sandor wanted to swear at her, tell her that she could bugger the will of the Gods. He stood, immobilised by barely-contained anger, hands clenching and unclenching by his sides.

“Why would they marry her again?” He asked. “Would they not give her more of a choice?”

“What respectable gentleman would want her?”

“Can’t she not remarry? If there’s money-”

“What of her reputation? Even a successful annulment would bring her family down, and they may need to marry upwards to ensure their position. There are her siblings to consider too.”

“Ever thought that the issue may lie within your bloody society? She’s a victim-”

“Take a week,” Old Nan said. “Longer, if you can ensure that she remains untouched.”

“And what’s meant to change in that time?”

The old woman looked at him with that ridiculously unnerving gaze. _Elder Brother would love her. She's probably half blind._

“You would be surprised.”

Sandor cleared his throat, injecting as much strength into his words as was possible.

“Don’t tell her family I came here, understood?”

“As you wish.” She smiled. “This may yet resolve itself.”

_It might, if you had even one helpful piece of advice._

“And if it does not?”

“Then you may be free from her, as you wish.”

_No, you old crone,_ _she_ _may be free from_ _me_ _._ Sandor turned to leave, and her words followed him out, spoken with another damn smile.

“The Gods grant you time. Do not waste it.”

“See you in a week, old woman.”

Her parting laughter unnerved Sandor more than he cared to admit.

_Do not waste it? This entire situation is a waste of my time, and a waste of hers, more importantly._ Sandor walked past his estate again and didn’t dare enter. Instead, he found his way to a bar. He ordered non-alcoholic beer after non-alcoholic beer as if to prove that at least he had one thing under control, as if soft drinks could help fill the pit of disgust curling in his stomach. His fingers itched for his phone and before he could think it through Sandor had called the Elder Brother and was ready to beg him to come down to the bar. Though the man was technically his therapist, Sandor could not remember the last time the man had actually accepted money from him. He supposed that made him Sandor’s ex-therapist, though through the years they had long become something akin to friends- the Elder Brother was perhaps even the closest thing to a father that Sandor had. He had even joined Sandor on occasion to celebrate holidays during the times Sandor couldn’t bear to intrude on his sister’s family. If there was anyone that could help, it was the Elder Brother. Sandor raised his phone to his ear.

“I’m sober, I swear it,” he said as soon as his friend picked up.

“I believe you.”

There was not a trace of doubt in the man’s voice and Sandor relaxed a miniscule amount.

“I’ll get us a booth,” he said. “I’m at the bar.”

He knew the Elder Brother would know where he was, and that he would not have picked up unless he was able to come; sure enough, he entered ten minutes later. Sandor caught a glimpse of pajamas under the man’s coat and immediately felt guilty. But before he could tell the man to forget it, to go home and get some sleep, he slid into the booth opposite sandor.

“Want a drink?” Sandor asked, hoping to buy time before the inevitable conversation began. Yes, he _had_ been the one to arrange it- _beg for it, more like-_ but that didn’t mean he wanted to admit what he had done.

“Coffee, please,” the Elder Brother said, with a wry smile that told Sandor he knew something bad had happened, bad enough to warrant caffeine in the middle of the night. Sandor ordered his friend’s drink, along with another non-alcoholic beer for himself, and settled back into the booth. The Elder Brother took a sip of his coffee, and Sandor tried to not to wince as his friend spoke.

“Talk to me.”

The dam broke.

“I don't know what to do, she’s so bloody miserable and it’s all my fault and I should have checked with that old biddy beforehand but I didn’t, and now it’s too late and we- I could get an annu-” Sandor broke off abruptly upon noticing his friend’s puzzled expression. He realised that he hadn’t so much as mentioned anything since before the ball. The last he had told the Elder Brother was that he was going to go to the ball to gather information about selling his estate. Sandor groaned, furious at everything and everyone, most of all himself.

“So you’ve met a girl.” The gleam in the man’s eye only fuelled Sandor’s rage. “Did you meet at the ball?”

Sandor scoffed. “You could say that.”

"What's she like?"

“Don't know. She hates me. Utterly terrified...Looks at me like I might beat her bloody.” _Or fuck her bloody. Shit, this was a mistake. All of this._

“I see. Why might she think that?”

“Fuck if I know-”

Elder Brother cut him off with a stern look.

”She’s been raised in a very repressive environment,” Sandor said. He spoke slowly, unwilling to admit the whole truth. _Shit, it really is bad if I’m hiding details from him._ He waited for the inevitable question- _what did you do to her?-_ but it never came.

”What does it matter?”

Sandor froze with the bottle halfway to his lips.

“Why this girl? What’s so special about her?”

Sandor grimaced, and suddenly the bottle was back on the table, forgotten, and he had lowered his voice, words pouring out.

“Look, I- fuck- I’ve made a mistake.”

The Elder Brother took another sip of his coffee.

“Can it be fixed?”  


“I don’t know. Yes. Yes, I think so, but _fuck.”_

“Fixed for you?”

_“Yes,”_ Sandor said. “Fixed for me and not her, and I’m the idiot that dragged her into this mess. Nineteen- she’s nineteen- _do you know how old I am?_ ”

“Twenty eight, if my memory still serves. Not quite ten years.”

“A bloody lifetime,” Sandor muttered, well aware that he was being ridiculous. _We’re not a real couple; the age gap doesn’t matter._ The Elder Brother raised his eyebrows.

Sandor slumped in his chair, and several minutes passed in silence.

“She’s got red hair,” Sandor said. Somehow objective observations were an easier place to start. “She’s so very…… obedient. She’s a noble. Got lots of siblings.”

It wasn't long before the words were flowing; there was no one else that had this effect on Sandor, but something about the Elder Brother’s boundless patience just unlocked something inside of him. Sandor told him _everything,_ from meeting Arya first, to beating up Joffrey, to their marriage.

“She’s so naive, so quiet, gods, and her sister- And her _bitch_ sister- I know, I know, she’s only looking out for her- but she- I should never have listened to her.” Sandor leaned back against the booth, closing his eyes for a brief moment and running a hand over his face. ”The point is, her reputation is screwed if I get an annulment and she doesn’t remarry, but she could marry any buggering idiot otherwise. She would. I know she would. The first bastard her parents suggest, she would marry them. She would say it’s her choice and it wouldn’t be her choice at all.”

”And if you stayed married?”

Sandor’s eyes shot open. He scowled.

”Could you insist she is given a choice after the annulment?”

”I don’t think the girl even knows how to choose.”

Elder Brother smiled, that wry curl of his lips that often preceded a terrible idea.

”Gods, what is it?”

”As long as she remains ‘untouched’, as they say, you have all the time in the world.”

”Sure, I guess.”

”It sounds like she doesn’t know what she wants.”

”Right. It’s not as if I can just force her to figure it out.”

”No, but...”

Sandor stared at him.

”What?” he snapped. ”Tell me. Get to the point.”

“What does she need?”

“Not me,” Sandor muttered. “I don’t know. Seven hells….. a friend?”

”Then be a friend to her, Sandor. No, don’t you shake your head. It sounds like outside of her family, you are all she has. Help her find herself. When the time comes to annul this marriage, she will be able to choose her future- assuming that you will still want an annulment, of course.”

”Why wouldn’t we want an annulment?”

”Perhaps you may get along.” The glint in his eye told Sandor what the Elder Brother meant and he snorted at the idea.

”Perhaps she might tolerate me, you mean. That’s all I can hope for. She’s gorgeous.” He hadn’t meant to say that last bit, but screw it. The Elder Brother could practically read his mind after all these years. Sandor sighed, thankful that at least the Elder Brother never looked at him with sympathy. Somehow the older man toed the line of compassion and sympathy without ever crossing it.

“She must be stressed.”

“She’s terrified of me. Knowing me won’t help. It’ll scare her off.”

“You’re-”

“I’m terrible.”

“Terribly hard to get along with,” the Elder Brother admitted with a chuckle. “But a good man. Why else would you have done this?”

“Maybe I wanted to force her. Maybe I wanted this. Some twisted part of me-”

“Stop,” the Elder Brother said. “‘Maybe you wanted to force her?’- this girl that you ran from because you were afraid of losing control? No, Sandor. If you wanted to force her, you would have done.”

“I nearly did-”

“You didn’t. That’s what counts-”

“For a second-”

“And then you ran. Sandor, you’ve got to trust yourself. Now, how are you going to help her?”

“Huh?”

The Elder Brother didn’t offer any answers. Sandor racked his brain for the right one. It was like therapy all over again.

“I’ll try not to shout at her,” he offered. It sounded like the weakest concession ever. _I’ll force her into marriage but it’s all perfectly fucking fine because I won’t shout at her? Pathetic._

“Good. what else?”

“Patience? Shit, I don’t know. Should I tell her about the annulment?”

“Yes, but wait until she’s emotionally stable. As soon as possible, but only when you’ve wrapped your head around it.”

“I won’t tell her about the choice thing. Otherwise she’ll work too hard to guess what it is that I want. Is it too deceptive? I…. don’t know. Fuck, no, this is too weird. I can’t-”

_“Sandor.”_

Sandor groaned.

“Perhaps think of opportunities where she might figure out what she likes and dislikes,” his friend suggested. “Times where she is forced to choose, though nothing major.”

“Like what?”

“What is she going to do today?”

Sandor winced.

“I don’t know; I can’t see her today,” Sandor said. “Just- can’t- I’m going to go back to the apartment and….. I don’t know.”

The Elder Brother stood up.

“Hey, where are you going?” Sandor hated the note of desperation that coloured his tone.

“I’m going home, Sandor.”

“But-”

“Go and make things right. Sleep a little and spend the day calming yourself down if you must, but promise me you’ll not leave her alone during the night.”

“I left her alone tonight and she was probably fine,” Sandor muttered. The image of Sansa clutching his shirt came unbidden into his mind.

“Sandor.”

“Alright, I promise.”

“Good. Work on activities you might do together that help you bond and her make choices, just small at first.”

Sandor nodded. _I’ll help her make choices,_ he decided, _but there’s no reason I need to be around. There’s plenty she can do by herself. Shopping- no, she would need me to get a ride there and back. Cooking? No, she would only cook things she thinks I would like. Baking? I hate baking and I hate sweet food, so she can’t try to make something for me. Perfect. We’ll build up from that._

Sandor’s briefly jubilant mood lasted until that evening. He had, as the Elder Brother suggested, slept at his apartment and then spent the day at the gym. By the evening he was tired enough that he was half-tempted to return to the apartment and let sleep claim him once more, but he remembered his promise and began the long walk to the estate. Sandor entered the bedroom as night fell and found Sansa waiting there, a shadow in the dark, moving entirely too much for someone that should be asleep. Sansa sat up, watching Sandor as he changed into his pajamas. When he was ready to sleep, about to clamber into bed, she spoke, and he sighed, one hand tightly holding onto the bed frame.

“Please, my lord, tell me how I've displeased you and I'll do better, I swear it.”

“I'm no Lord,” he said, instinct making the words biting.

“You aren't Lord Clegane?”

“I don't use the title, I'd be rid of it if---” _If I hadn’t married you._ Sandor shook the thought from his head. It wasn’t the girl’s fault. _But if it isn’t her fault, that just leaves me; me and her disgusting society. Ah, nevermind- this is just a temporary arrangement, this is- it’s- fuck-- Patience. I must not shout at her._

“Don’t call me- that- please.”

“What am I to call you?”

It could have just been his hopeful imagination, but her voice sounded slightly calmer. _Just making my voice softer makes her calmer- how disgusting am I by nature that she is satisfied with simple human decency?_

“Call me whatever you want,” he managed to say, the words little more than a feral snarl. Then he stormed to the bed, collapsing on his side- _'my side’? We’re like a real fucking couple aren’t we- bloody wonderful._ He resolutely ignored Sansa, and she got the message that their conversation was over. Sandor lay awake, so many curses piling up in his mind that he could barely think. Sansa was moving on the other side of the room, creeping to the bed painfully quietly. Even her careful steps reminded Sandor that he was unworthy of her; _gods, I scare her so much that she even fears my response to her footsteps._

“‘Night,” he said, as if that would soften the blow of his earlier harshness.

“Goodnight,” Sansa said, the whisper reaching him in the darkness. _She’s made it to the bed, then._ “Goodnight, husband.”

It was only then, hearing her voice again, that Sandor realised why he had snapped at her in the first place: _‘tell me how I’ve displeased you’._ Gods, the girl was…. obedient. The word sent bile up his throat and Sandor repressed a shudder. He could tell her to do anything, and it would be done. But where was the surge of power at that realisation? Where was the lust when he felt the dip in the mattress, when he caught a glimpse of her shoulder beneath that fiery hair? _Times like this it might be easier to be like Gregor,_ Sandor thought, turning over in bed to watch Sansa as she slept. The rise and fall of her shoulders and the soft, quiet breathing were enough to calm him down, enough to assure him that he was _nothing_ like Gregor. _The Elder Brother was right. I might have his title now, but Gregor would have taken her many times over already, and I’ll not, not until…. not until she wants me to, which is never, I suppose. The end of time will arrive before she’ll want me, but I’ll find a way out of this situation, and she’ll be free, and I can go back to...._ What did he have to go back to again? _Stranger. I’ll go back to Stranger. Would Sansa like Stranger?_ The thought was dangerously like a future plan, so Sandor dismissed it quickly, focusing on the girl in front of him. He had enough to worry about: choices, and- and- what was it? He was struggling to concentrate on anything except for her red hair that burned bright behind his closed eyes. _I’m tired, that’s all._

“Sandor,” he said quietly, though she was probably already asleep- or _because_ she was already asleep- “You can call me Sandor.”


	7. Early Days (part one)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! This chapter is another Sansa POV and it ended up being so huge that I've split it into two chapters- here's part one :)
> 
> I had a terrible day today but coming on here and finding over 2500 hits (and nearly 200 kudos.... what?!) and reading all your comments makes me feel so much better. Thank you all for your support- please let me know what you think of this chapter; feedback is always super inspiring.
> 
> Hope you enjoy! :)

## Chapter Seven: Early Days (part 1)

###  **Sansa**

_Oh,_ Sansa thought, upon seeing her soon-to-be-husband- _very_ _soon to be husband-_ as she walked through the forest. _He looks strong._ She almost averted her eyes for the sake of modesty, but then straightened her spine; they were to be married, after all. There were more people present than she cared to think about, and Sansa was thankful that it was evening, the sunset giving her a natural blush and hiding the colour in her cheeks. Her breath hitched as she stood opposite him, and she wasn’t sure _why_ exactly; there was something in his face that frightened her, certainly. Was it his scars curling up his left cheek to the edge of his eye? Was it his slight frown? Or was it the look in his eyes? Sansa’s breath hitched as she saw again how muscular he was. His arms were huge, and though Sansa considered herself a tall woman, he towered over her. Her heart was suddenly beating her stomach into a frenzy, panic taking hold. _Perhaps he might hurt me. He hurt Joffrey so quickly, so easily, so brutally. I would not even be able to run. But then again, when he spoke…._ He had not sounded angry, just utterly despairing like there was something weighing him down. _"Girl, what did he do?”_

Sansa had barely looked at him when they met, but his touch was gentle as he rushed to catch her. The ground had swerved towards her, slowly at first and then all at once, and it was his arms cradling her that she noticed as she woke, returning to the world slowly. She felt herself passed from his arms to her father’s and he did not simply thrust her forwards; no, his hands lingered to make sure that she was secure in her father’s arms. He had not needed to interrupt, nor hurt Joffrey, nor catch her. Sansa smiled at the memory. Joffrey’s torment was tinged with at least one positive thing- meeting her husband-to-be.

Sansa only wished she had thanked him, but she supposed she could do that when they spoke in private, after the feast. 

She had already been told about his scars, described in detail by Arya and with a touch of warning by both her parents, but she was not prepared for the tug in her chest when she let her eyes skim over them. _That must have hurt,_ Sansa thought. _I hope they do not still cause him pain._ She had heard of phantom limb syndrome- for scars like that, was there something similar? They tugged at his lips a little, bringing the left side downwards. Sansa jumped as he opened his mouth, blushing furiously as she realised he was only saying his vows. _I must be brave. I’m not some foolish girl. Mother says he’s in his late twenties, he won’t want a child._

When he spoke, his voice was a low rasp, surprisingly quiet, as if meant only for her. The low cadence of his words put Sansa at ease, and she managed to keep her voice mostly steady as she spoke her own vows. There was something about him that drew Sansa in. His gaze trailed up and down her body, and when they found Sansa’s eyes she dropped her gaze. But there was nowhere to look except _him,_ so she slowly trailed her gaze back up again, peeking at him under her lashes, only to find that he was still looking at her. She looked away, abashed, her eyes dancing to his hair instead. It was long, and as dark as night, straight save for the ends, resting on his shoulders.

When it was time for their kiss Sansa raised her gaze to meet her husband’s eyes. _Eyes like dark storm clouds,_ she realised, _soft like all clouds but dark with the promise of rain._ His eyes softened when they found hers, and he shifted his feet a little. Sansa though he might almost be embarrassed to be caught staring at her for so long without moving forwards. Or perhaps he felt just as awkward as she did, riddled with uncertainty about their kiss. Sansa let her lips curve with a whisper of a smile, fear deserting her for a few seconds. Her husband ducked his head and Sansa raised herself upwards, meeting him halfway. She felt the dichotomy of him then, the brush of his scars on her right, the firmness of his lips under hers. His hands briefly brushed her waist, his lips yielding to hers for an instant, before he was gone, leaving Sansa slightly flushed and out of breath.

The feast was everything Sansa had dreamed of, chiefly because she had planned much of it herself. Arya and her mother had made the necessary arrangements since her husband had no family of his own that were involved in the wedding- or none he had mentioned to Sansa’s parents. Though it was supposedly all prepared with secrecy, Arya told her each time they were weighing up a decision, and together they would make a choice before Arya told their mother, pretending it was all _her_ idea. Sansa had chosen everything- from her ivory dress to the food that they ate (pumpkin soup for one course because winter might be coming but autumn was up next). Even the music they danced to was carefully selected. Her mother had allowed Sansa to embroider her dress herself in the evenings, subtle silver thread woven up the skirt. As Sansa danced, she was complimented on the dress so often that she could not help but let a bit of pride flare up in her.

Her husband had refused to have a bedding, her mother said, leading Sansa by the arm to the side of the hall, so she ought to leave with him when he was ready. Sansa stole a glance at her husband, finding him speaking to Bran, and interrupted their conversation- well, she had overhead “perhaps if I had, I’d have paid less”and her husband had heard her gasp, turning to her. But he hadn’t mentioned it again. He was cordial and polite, well, mostly. He was gruff, short with her, and demanded her honest opinion. Yet Sansa had not felt afraid. He had grasped her arm, not ungently, when she tripped, and seemed to agree with her views on the bedding. The silence that settled between them as they walked to his home was _almost_ companionable, spent with his large hand easily covering hers loosely as if giving her a chance to pull away. Sansa only let go when they reached the estate.

And then it all went wrong.

Sansa did everything as she had been taught to: she dressed in a silk nightgown, she sat and waited for her husband, and she moved carefully and slowly until he was atop her. But just before the situation progressed, he had brushed his hand against the inside of her thigh, and _Joffrey’s_ hand had been there. The pressure of his body on hers became Joffrey, and his weight was crushing, and she had frozen, breath coming in short, sharp gasps, too loud. _Too loud, too loud, too loud. Everything is too loud._ Her heartbeat, her breathing, her thoughts. Before she knew what was going on, her husband was gone. She had displeased him to such an extent that he had left in a rush, left for _an entire day,_ only returning the next evening. Sansa had gone to bed sobbing, cradling his discarded shirt, and had since worked hard to stay composed. But when he returned, it was all the same, stumbling over courtesies until he snapped at her, telling her not to use his title. Something told Sansa that he wouldn't like to hear the word _Lord_ at all, even if it was _my Lord husband._ So she simply thought of him as _husband,_ and _Sandor._ She was not entirely sure that he had asked her to call him by his given name. It felt some intimate, and given that they had not been intimate at all…. It could have been nothing more than hazy half-dreamt thoughts. 

“You can call me Sandor.”

Did she know his voice well enough that she might have imagined his words, spoken in little more than a rasped whisper? Sansa wasn’t sure, but she did know that she liked his name. _Sandor._ The name was like hers but with a little less grace, just as they were, bound together though so dissimilar, so terribly matched, it would seem. _Did Old Nan make a mistake?_ Was it possible? For both their sakes, she hoped not. _He sleeps beside me tonight,_ she thought. _Perhaps his mood has changed._

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

Sansa woke to the sound of running water and a curse before her husband emerged from the bathroom notably dry. She dared not move, not yet. He stormed across the room and she screwed her eyes shut. _I’m a coward,_ she knew, uncharacteristic bitterness lacing her thoughts, _hiding from my husband in our bed, cowering in fear instead of helping him._ Though she was shaking, Sansa managed to sit up, just in time to hear the bathroom door slam again. This time, her husband didn’t emerge for several long minutes, giving her time to school her features away from terror, and to run her comb through her hair, waves made unruly in her fitful sleep.

When he exited the bathroom, Sandor was doing up his trousers, and he was shirtless. Sansa swallowed. _He’s putting on clothes, not taking them off. He won’t want me now. Probably. But how can I know? He should have taken me on our wedding night, yet he practiced restraint. I can’t predict when he might want me. It could be now-- Gods, he’s watching me, and I don’t know what to do--_

“Might I help you, husband?” Sansa wasn’t sure what she was actually offering- memories of her lady mother helping her father with his ties, or smoothing down his shirt before a meeting, sprang to her mind. But given that she wore only a nightgown, and her husband was partially undressed…. Sansa swallowed, looking up into his face to try to gauge which he was thinking of. He frowned, and her heart plummeted anew. _He wants neither my help nor my body._

“You don’t need to.”

“I would like to help you get ready,” Sansa insisted, “As any wife would--”

He grimaced at that; _what did I do wrong?_

“Don’t.”

“I apologise---”

“Don’t.”

Sansa decided to remain silent, seeing as she could do nothing but bring her husband displeasure. She sank down on the bed, resisting the urge to curl up.

“I meant you don’t have to help out of obligation. I’m only dressing. I can do that myself. And you don’t have to apologise.”

“Oh.”

“About what happened yesterday,” her husband said. He spoke haltingly, as if this wasn’t a conversation he had chosen, as if he hadn’t just invaded their fragile peace with his words. “And about before, with that cun-- with Joffrey. At the ball…”

Sansa looked down, her mind a tangle of confusion; dismay as his words triggered memories to spring forth unbidden, worrisome anticipation at what he could wish to say, and sharp fear settling in Sansa’s heart as she remembered Joffrey’s words. _He must want to know what happened. He must know that I’m still pure, but perhaps he does not trust the words of others._

“I’m still a maid,'' Sansa blurted. “He didn’t- he only-”

“Good.”

 _Good. he believes me. Good. He’ll want to take it from me himself._ Sansa nodded. _As is his right,_ a voice that sounded like her Lady mother said. _Of course he’ll want to. He’ll want to take my maidenhood and plant himself in me and hurt me and he’ll-- he’ll-- oh no, I can’t--_

“Look at me. Look at me, Sansa.”

Sansa looked up at her husband. She was swaying slightly from side to side, tears blurring her vision, leaving her disorientated as well as afraid.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice cracking. “Please forgive me. I’ll do better. I mean it-”

“I know you do,” her husband said. “Don’t cry, okay?”

He looked nothing short of miserable, his mouth set in a line, the frown present in his voice as well as etched onto his forehead. His demeanor was so entirely at odds with what Sansa had hoped she could bring to her husband, and the realisation that she had failed so acutely, so quickly, in every manner, suddenly became too much. Overwhelmed by despair, Sansa burst into tears. Then her husband was there, and Sansa hadn’t the energy to flinch away. She leaned into his chest when he reached out an arm to comfort her, wetting his shirt in her tears, muffling the cries that threatened to escape. When her tears finally dried she found herself drained, cradled in her husband’s arms, with one hand awkwardly supporting her head and the other drawing languid circles on her lower back.

“You’re okay,” he said, his voice close and soft near her ear despite its rasping quality. With her head on his chest Sansa could feel his rumbling speech as well as hear it, and she sighed, tired and uncertain but almost safe, too, in a cocoon that broke apart too quickly when Sandor realised she had stopped crying. He released her and she sat back, hurriedly drying her eyes as if regaining her composure would somehow help them to forget she had lost it so carelessly.

“You should get some rest,” her husband said. “I’ve got to go to work but I’ll be back later, alright?”

Sansa took a deep breath, recovering quickly after her face fell, and chiding herself for it. _It is natural. He is right. He is thoughtful, allowing me some rest before he claims me later, as he should. I will dry my tears and draw a bath and make myself pretty so that he does not remember this lapse of composure. I will be good for him tonight. No; I shall be perfect._

“I understand.”

“No,” Sandor said, his voice hard as steel and a great deal sharper. Sansa’s eyes flew to his face. “No,” he said again. “I do not expect _that_ from you.”

“It is your right as my husband.”

“It is not-- what of your right to refuse?”

Sansa blinked at him. “Should my moonblood be upon me, or mayhaps if I am struck by illness, I might ask that--”

“Gods, Sansa.” He was standing in an instant, so very tall, towering above her as she sat on the bed, trembling a little. “I’m not a bloody rapist. Husband or no, I’ll not take you by force. Never. I’ll not hurt you, do you understand me?”

“Yes,” Sansa said, surprised to find that she truly believed him. She met his gaze, drinking in its gentleness, and felt a wave of appreciation, coupled with guilt, crash through her.

“I’m sorry for my weakness-” she ventured.

“You’re not weak,” Sandor said, though his accompanying sigh suggested the opposite.

“He did nothing,” she whispered. “I’m still- untouched-”

“Just because he didn’t fuck you, doesn’t mean you’re not hurt. It’s fine to feel how you feel. Natural. Not good, mind, but it makes sense, given… given the circumstances.” He sighed again, his shoulders sagging. “I have to go. You should talk to someone about this.”

“Who?”

“Your family?”  


Sansa shook her head.

“I’ve…. I’ve someone I speak to. I’ll leave you his number, so you might give him a call. If you _want_ to. Or he might know a woman, if you’d be more comfortable.”

“Give him a call?” Sansa echoed. My lord--” her eyes widened at her mistake, but he didn’t correct her, only winced. “Um, where is your phone?”

“Landline? I’ve not got one.”

“Oh.”

“You don’t have a mobile?”

“No.”

“I’ll get you one. Here, keep mine for now.”

Sandor dug a mobile from his pockets and Sansa scurried forwards to take it, holding it carefully, almost with reverence. _See what he has trusted me with!_ Her husband moved into the hallway and Sansa followed him, listening carefully as he continued to speak whilst pulling on his shoes.

“He’s listed as _Elder Brother_ in my contacts,” he said. “He’s a therapist of sorts, albeit an odd one. If you decide to call him, you can tell him who you are. If you want. He…. knows our situation.”

_I don't think_ _I_ _fully know our situation._ Sansa bit back a wry smile.

“And if you need me, text Bronn, just tell him you need me, alright, and I’ll get the phone from him and call you. But tell him you’re a friend if he asks. Or tell him to fuck off.” Sandor took a deep breath, straightening up as he finished tying his boots. _I think that’s the most I’ve ever heard him speak at once._ It gave Sansa time to appreciate the deep rasp of his words. “Can you remember all that?”

Sansa nodded.

“I can remember.” If nothing else, she had been raised with a sound memory, ready to run a household. She could remember a few basic instructions.

“Good. I’ll uh, see you later, unless there’s anything else?”

“I believe that’s all.”

“Food’s in the kitchen.”

Then he was gone with the slam of the front door.

“Goodbye,” Sansa murmured. She made her way back to the bed, fully intending to simply lay her head down and rest for a moment. But when her head hit the pillow she found herself utterly overwhelmed by exhaustion and gave into it, letting unconscious claim her.

Sansa awoke to the buzzing of the phone, several texts arriving in quick succession. _Is it him?_ No, the name read _Ellie,_ not _Bronn. Am I meant to read these messages? They aren't meant for me, clearly, but what if it’s important?_ Sansa might not have a phone, but Arya did, and she knew how easy it would be to just click on the notifications and have them pop up in full. Another message flashed up, and the start of it came up on the lockscreen. 

**Ellie** fuck it, I’m calling you. Sands, I can’t d-

Sansa was at a loss, her finger hovering over the screen. She nearly shrieked when it buzzed again, the long buzz of a call. _Ellie_ flashed up on the screen and for an instant Sansa had a terrifying vision of a girlfriend finding out that Sandor had married her and-- no, that wouldn’t happen. If it would, he certainly wouldn’t have trusted her with his phone. Clearing her throat to disguise the fact that she had just woken up, Sansa made up her mind and clicked the green button that had appeared.

“Thank the gods, Sandor---”  


“Sorry,” Sansa interrupted. “But I’m Sansa. Not- I’m a friend. Um.” she tried to think of a good excuse, a sway to explain why she had his phone. _Well, we’re married and he said he would get me a phone--_ “I lost my phone and he leant me his so that i could contact him today through his friends if I need to.”

“Ah. I see. It’s nice to meet you, Sansa.”

“Yes, nice to talk to you as well. Are you well? I don’t mean to intrude, only-”

“You saw my barrage of texts.”

“I didn’t read them,” Sansa assured her.

“Ah. Where did you say Sandor is?”

“He’s at work, and I'm at the estate.”

“Oh, you’re helping him sell the estate?”

 _He’s…. He’s…..selling the estate? We’ll be moving. Why didn’t he tell me? No, I’m being ridiculous. Why should he? He’s my husband now, and not every man is like my father. Just because my Lady mother helps guide his decisions does not mean_ _my_ _husband wishes for me to do the same. I’ll think no more of it; I don’t know if he would have permitted me to see much of my family anyway. And if he’s getting me a phone I'll be able to talk to Arya no matter how far we are. Yes, I’ll be fine. I’ll not speak of it._

“Yes,” Sansa lied. “Yes, I’m helping him with the estate.”

“That’s so good of you- I’m sorry I’m not doing anything to help with it, it’s only that…. I don’t know how much he’s told you, but I cannot be near that place for long.”

“I understand,” Sansa said. She didn’t know what the woman was talking about, but she recognised the slight edge to her voice; it was one that spoke of past trauma. “If you need me to contact him--”

“No, no, that’s alright. I forgot that he was working, and though I know he’d drop everything if I asked, I still would feel terribly bad.”

“I know how that feels,” Sansa said, real warmth in her tone because _by the gods_ did she understand that pressing guilt. “Perhaps I might be able to help instead?”

“Thanks, uh, what was your name again?”

“I’m Sansa. You’re Ellie?”

“That’s me. Thanks, Sansa. Sands is lucky to have you.”

Sansa nodded, emotion sending sharp tears to her eyes, before realising that Ellie couldn’t see her.

“Sands?” She asked.

“Yeah,” Ellie laughed, sounding utterly carefree. “I’ve called him that since we were kids.”

“Oh?”

“You don’t know who I am,” Ellie realised.

“I apologise, I--”

“No, no, it’s fine. I shouldn’t have assumed my own importance.” There was mirth in her voice that helped Sansa relax. “I’m his sister.”

Sansa stifled a gasp. _A sister!_

“Oh!”

“Yes. I thought perhaps Sandor might be free to take care of his nephew for a few hours.”

“You have children?” Sansa couldn’t hide the smile in her voice.

“Twin boys, and they’re a right handful. You have kids?”

“Not yet, but soon, I hope.” Sansa flushed at the thought of having twins. She wondered if they ran in Ellie's line- her husband’s line- or if it was the father of her children that brought them. She hoped for the former.

“Good luck,” Ellie said, and Sansa had to laugh.

“I’ve a lot of younger siblings, and my youngest brother is six now, so I’m fairly used to children.”

“Oh?” Mine are seven. “You wouldn’t happen to….. You’re at the estate?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“How long until Sandor gets there?”

 _I’m not sure when he finishes work._ Sansa stole a glance outside and found the day far from over, the sun barely starting to dip in the sky.

“Yesterday he--” She stopped herself, barely catching the words in time. “I usually see him in the late evening, so a few more hours yet.”

There was a long pause.

“Sansa, could I ask a favour?”

“Of course.”

“My husband and sons were caught in a car accident. It’s nothing serious, thank the gods, only I’ve got to stay at the hospital to fill out forms and such and they're only allowing one visitor. One of my sons has broken his arm, but the other is entirely fine. So Jon is staying here, but I can’t stay with Theo- one visitor, you see, and I can’t stay with him at home either because I’ve got to fill out all these forms and there’s a time limit on making a claim with the car insurance and they want some kind of police report--” Ellie took a deep breath. “Would it be horribly irresponsible to send Theodore to you in a taxi? It would take perhaps half an hour, so another hour with him until Sands arrives home, or two hours, but oh, I can’t-”

“I would be perfectly happy to look after him,'' Sansa said. “Perhaps you could give him your phone? I could talk to him in the taxi and send a message to the hospital when he arrives.”

“Thank you, Sansa. I could give him my husband's phone and keep mine and speak with him in the taxi, so don’t worry about that. When he arrives could you tell me straight away? I’m sorry, but he’s only seven and--”

“Of course. Is he okay? You said he was unharmed, but-”

“A little shaken up, but yes, he’s fine.” Ellie sighed. “I really appreciate this, Sansa, truly.”

“I’m happy to help.” _And glad to have something to do_.

“I’ll send him to you, then.”

“Speak to you soon.”

“Bye.”

Sansa stood up, moving quickly. _Half an hour,_ Ellie said. _I’ll get some food ready for him. Theodore. Theo. I’ll need to cook for my husband too. And I had better message him, via Bronn. I’ll do that first, in case it takes a while for a reply._ She scrolled through the list of contacts, finding Bronn quickly. _He doesn’t have many people in his phone,_ Sansa noted. Then again, she only had Arya to compare him with, and Arya definitely spoke to far too many people. Sansa typed out a message to Bronn, keeping it short and to the point but polite. 

**Sandor** Hi, it’s Sansa. Please might I speak with Sandor?

As she waited for a reply, Sansa's mind ran wild. _He’s got a sister and twins might run in the family and he’s going to sell the estate and he hasn’t told his sister about me and-_

**Bronn** ‘course, love. One min x

**Incoming call.**


	8. Early Days (part two)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Here is the second half of Early Days- I hope you like it. Though Ellie and her kids aren't a huge feature, they do have a role long-term in this fic, so this is not the last we see of them :) Coming up next is another short Sansa POV chapter, and then we're back to Sandor.
> 
> Thank you so much for the amazing response to the last chapter- hitting 3000 views feels very surreal and your feedback never fails to make me smile. I hope you enjoy this chapter; let me know what you think!

## Chapter Eight: Early days (part 2)

###  **Sansa**

**Incoming call.**

Sansa took a deep breath.

“Hello?” Her voice was little more than a whisper.

“Sansa.”

It was her husband, his voice a familiar rasp in her ear, putting her at ease.

“What’s going on?” He asked. “You okay?”

“Your sister called.”

There was a pause, and then an explosion of curses.

“Seven buggering bloody hells- ah- shit-”

Sansa raised her voice a little to be heard.

“I didn’t tell her. About, um, us.”

“You didn’t?”

“I- I hope that’s alright. I wasn’t sure if-”

“No, that’s good.” Relief laced his tone. “Good. What did she want?”

Sansa told him everything, almost relishing in his panic as he heard about the accident, trying not to smile at his extreme reactions. _Could he one day act like this with me? Loud and abrasive and so very worried._ When she was finished, an idea blared in her mind, but she hesitated, nerves holding her back.

“What is it?” _How does he know there’s something else?_

Sansa took another deep breath to steady herself and spoke quickly so that she couldn’t back out.

“I was thinking perhaps that he- Theo- might want company, that someone else his own age may settle him. I could… I could ask Arya if she might be able to bring Rickon round. That’s my brother, he’s--”

“Six. I know. Youngest of you lot.”

“Yes, that’s him.” Sansa didn’t have much time to marvel over his knowing about Rickon before he spoke again.

“Thought you didn’t have a phone.”

“I don’t.”

“Then how do you know Arya's number?”

“Oh,” Sansa said, her mood plummeting.

“Nevermind--”

“Oh! I do have it! She wrote it down for me in a notebook, just in case I-- oh, where are my things--” _Just in case I needed to get away from you. Just in case you turned out like Joffrey, or worse._ Sansa rummaged in her suitcase, only half unpacked, and pulled out the notebook.

“Got it?”

Sansa opened the back page of her notebook and grinned.

“Got it,” she said.

“Great,” Sandor said. “It’s a plan. You’re sure you’ll be alright?”

“Yes,” Sansa said. “I’m sure.”

“If Arya's dropping off Rickon, she might want to stay a while.”

“Oh.” Sansa hadn’t thought of that. She lived at the estate now, and Sandor was fine with Rickon being there, but Arya….

“It’s fine if she’d like to stay,” he said, shaking Sansa from her thoughts. “There’s food, but not a lot. Don’t worry about finishing it. We’ll have to go into town and get more at some point anyway..”

Sansa smiled at the use of _we; as if we’re a team- a real married couple._

“Sounds good,” she said.

“Hm. I’ll uh, I’ll leave you to get all of that sorted.”

“Oh, of course.”

There was a pause.

“Thanks,” Sandor said, the word barely ground out, but enough to widen her smile. “Bye.”

“Goodbye,” Sansa said quickly. _Not quickly enough-_ she was met with the beep of the phone as the call ended. _I’ll have to get used to his abrupt goodbyes,_ Sansa thought, returning to the phone keypad. She considered texting Arya, but decided a call would be fastest. The phone rang twice before she answered.

“Hi--”

“Listen, if this is that dickhead from last ni-- _Sansa? Shit,_ are you okay? Whose phone-- I swear, if--”

“I’m fine, Arya, really. Are you home?”

“Yeah. Why? You sure you’re-”

“Can you bring Rickon over to the estate? S- Lord Clegane’s, I mean. I’ve got a child coming round, he’s seven, so I thought-”

“Woah, what? Sansa, why-”

“He’ll be here soon, so please hurry, and bring something for them to do. Food might be good. I’m not sure how much we have.”

Arya disappeared briefly to hollar up the staircase.

_“Rickon? Come here!”_

Sansa winced.

“When did you last eat?” Arya’s voice had thankfully returned to a normal volume.

“Oh.” It had been a while. “It doesn’t matter--”

“Sansa….”

“Please, will you see if Rickon wants to come?”

“I’ll bring him, if you eat when we get there.”

“Sure.”

“Whose phone is this, anyway?”

Arya disappeared for a second and Sansa winced as another shout of _Rickon!_ came through the phone.

“Sa- um, lord-- um--”

“What was that?”

“My husband’s phone,” Sansa said.

“Oh. How is--” Arya broke off. “Yes Rickon, now. Shoes on.” When she spoke again her voice was far gentler than was usual. “I’ll talk to you when we get there, okay?”

“See you soon.”

“Bye.”

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

Over the sound of the oven beeping, Sansa heard someone hammering on the door. She sighed, mentally preparing herself for the hurricane of chaos that was her sister, before turning the oven off, taking out the pasta tray and running to the front door. She fumbled with the handle for several moments, and then realised she was still wearing the oven mitt. She was careful to make sure she was smiling as the door swung open.

“Ayra, Rickon, it’s so good to see you.”

“We bought crayons!” Rickon declared with a toothy grin, wrapping his arms around her.

“That’s very nice.” Sansa enveloped him in a brief hug. “Now, Ellie texted me and Theodore should be here in five minutes, so-”

“Is that food I can smell?” Arya asked, stepping around Sansa and making a beeline for the counter.

“Yes, but be careful, it’s--”

“ _Ow,_ it’s hot!”

“-hot.”

“Smells good though.” Arya nursed her burnt hand but her eyes never strayed from the food.  
“It’s only pasta bake.” Sansa worried her lip with her teeth. She knew it was a bad habit, the kind her mother would scold her for, but she couldn’t help it.

“Can we make a fort with Theo?” Rickon asked. “I wanted to bring Shaggydog but Arya wouldn’t let him come.”

Sansa shot her sister a grateful look. _This will be chaotic enough without a dog thrown in as well._

“Sure, you can make a fort,” Sansa said. “But we’ll make sure you’re both fed first. Now where-”

On cue, the phone began to ring, and Sansa grabbed it off the counter, rushing back to the door.

“Hello,” she said, phone wedged between her ear and shoulder as she fumbled with the door..

“Hi Sansa. Theo says he’s outside,” Ellie said.

“Yep, I see the taxi.”

“Thanks again for doing this, Sansa.”

“It’s no problem, truly. I forgot to ask, does he have any allergies?”

_Please don’t have any, please don’t have any-_

“Nope, nothing.”

Sansa couldn’t help the sigh that escaped her lips; _one less thing to worry about._

“Perfect. I’d better go and say hello,” she said. “I’ll keep you updated.”

“Thank you.”

With that Ellie was gone and Sansa was faced with the taxi. Sansa opened the door and a small child hopped out with a soft ‘thank you’. Sansa couched down to his height.

“You must be Theo,” she said. “How are you?”

“I’m okay- are you friends with mummy?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“I’ve never met you before.”

“No. I, um, recently became… friends with Sandor, so I haven’t met your mummy yet.”

“ _Oh,_ ” Theo said, sounding thoroughly relieved. “You’re friends with Uncle Sandy?”

Sansa tried not to grin at the nickname.

“Yes,” she said, “I am.”

“I guess you’re alright then,” Theo said. Sansa smiled at him, straightening up.

“Are you hungry?”

He nodded and she offered him her hand. They walked inside together, neither speaking. _He’s rather subdued and quiet,_ Sansa thought. _Perhaps Rickon can lend him some of his boundless energy- or perhaps his gentle demeanor will rub off on Rickon._ Sansa smiled at the idea, knowing it to be impossible.

By the time Sansa had a moment to herself the sun had long set. She checked the phone and found two messages.

**Ellie:** hope all is going OK. I should be there in two hours or so.

It had been sent over an hour ago. Sansa quickly typed out a reply.

**Sansa:** yes, sorry! All is well, just quite chaotic 

She clicked on the other message.

**Bronn:** on my way - Sandor.

“Ooh, there’s spare.”

Arya grabbed the serving spoon and before Sansa had a chance to react her sister had lifted it halfway to her plate, loaded with pasta bake.

“Arya, don’t you dare, that’s not for you!”

Arya hesitated, her eyes flickering from the spoon to her plate. She must have heard the slight tinge of desperation to Sansa’s voice because she relented. Sansa took the spoon from her, offering her a much smaller portion. Arya huffed with displeasure.

“There’s half left,” she protested, “Surely he doesn’t eat that much.”

Sansa shook her head firmly and Arya stopped her grumbling. _He might not even eat any of it, but I’ve got to find some way to please him. Not leaving him enough food would be a disaster._

“Fine,” Arya muttered.

She leaned against the counter and they watched the boys playing by the sofa. It wasn’t long before the inevitable conversation occurred.

“Sansa, are you okay? You look tired.”

“I’m fine,” Sansa assured her sister. “It’s been a long day.”

Arya kept speaking as if she hadn’t heard her. “I spoke to him at the ball.”

“You already told me that, Arya,” Sansa said.

“I know. But I- I didn’t just talk to him. I encouraged him.”

“To-”

“Yeah, to make an- offer. I thought his bark was worse than his bite, you know? I know he isn't pretty like Joffrey, but-”

“Don’t. Don't- I-” Sansa shuddered at the thought of Joffrey, ignoring Arya’s questioning glance. She busied herself with filling the kettle.

“Sorry,” Arya said.

Sansa placed the kettle back with a little too much force.

“Joffrey isn’t pretty anyway,” Sansa said. It felt vaguely mutinous to say that, but in a good way, and she would have smiled if her mind wasn’t clouded by all that he had said. 

“Well….” Arya said, clearly at a loss for what to say to Sansa’s sudden ferocity. “Okay… I only meant.....”

“I know what you meant,” Sansa said. She paused, softening her voice. “I'm just... touchy about that, I guess.”

“Has he been good to you?” Arya asked.

“You sound like mother. I received a letter from her this morning.”

“I don't mean it like she does. I actually care about _you_ , not your reputation.”

“Mother _does_ care, it's just...”

“I know. We need the money,” Arya muttered, bitterness in her voice, her frown, and the way she stabbed at her food with a fork. Sansa sighed; she didn’t want to have his conversation _again,_ especially not now when she was exhausted.

“He is good to me,” she mumbled, finally answering Arya’s question.

“Yeah? He's, well, not a dick? He’s okay?”

“I- I haven't seen much of him yet, but I'm trying to get to know him. I would _like_ to know him.”

Arya frowned at that.

“So you’ve not been around him much?”

“Only in the evenings,” Sansa said. “And, um, mornings. This morning.”

“He’s- does he- is- when I’m with Gendry-”

Sansa cringed. She had never spoken with Arya about such topics, other than the occasional insult of _prude_ and _whore_ thrown during a heated argument. Arya was still struggling her way through the question, and Sansa decided to cut her off. _There’s nothing to talk about anyway. She would probably be_ _happy_ _that he hasn’t... that we haven’t...._

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Apparently that was the wrong thing to say, because Arya set down her fork, fire in her eyes. Sansa half expected her to pick up her knife and hunt Sandor down.

_"Gods, Sansa, I swear, I don’t care what mother says-_ ”

“No-”

“If he’s hurt you-”

“He hasn’t-”

“Sansa, I’ll fucking kill him. That _cunt._ You swear he’s done nothing?”

Yes- _literally_ _nothing,_ Sansa thought wryly.

“I’m fine.”

“I knew you’d put up with too much, but seriously Sansa, say the word and we’re out of here, and he’s as dead as his brother-”

“I’m fine,” Sansa said again, trying to inject some strength into her voice.

“But-”

“I’m fine.”

“Sansa-”

“She said she’s fine. Drop it, girl.” Sandor’s voice emerged from the shadows an instant before he did, stepping through the doorway. His insistence that Sansa was fine contrasted with the involuntary squeak that escaped her as she took a little panicked step backwards, hands reaching behind her to steady herself on the counter. Sandor continued: “You can plan my murder all you want, but not in my house.”

Arya glared at him. She stepped forwards, poised for _something,_ but was interrupted by a childish squeal.

“Uncle Sandy!”

Theodore’s voice rang out from the sofa, and then he was bounding across the room towards them. Sansa watched as Sandor swivelled around, bending into a crouch as he did so. Theodore flung his arms around Sandor’s neck.

“Up, up!”

And up they went, like dancers, Sandor with his hands so large that they met around his nephew’s waist, and Theodore giggling. When Sandor brought him down, Theodore’s arms found their way around his neck, and suddenly subdued, he sighed. Sandor wrapped his arms around the boy, who snuggled into his chest.

“Think that’s the last of his energy used up,” he muttered.

Rickon emerged from the sofa, coming to peek at the commotion.

“Hello,” he said, eyeing Sandor with a touch of wariness.

“Hm,” Sandor said. “Hello. What’ve you been up to, then? Made a fort?”

_He recognised it as a fort!_ Sansa was not sure why that filled her with glee, but it did. She watched her husband interact with Rickon and could help but smile, all traces of fear leaving her with nothing but a soft tug in her belly at the thought of one day having children. Would they be like Rickon, sharing her looks, or would they have more of the sharp look of the North that Sandor held in his strong jaw and dark hair?

“Sansa?” Arya’s voice broke her reverie.

“Huh? Oh, um, sorry.”

Everyone was looking at her and she felt a blush creep across her cheeks.

“I said that we should be going. It’s pretty late, and Rickon’s got lessons tomorrow.”

“Oh, of course.”

Arya embraced her in a brief hug. _This isn’t like her…._

“I meant what I said,” she whispered. “I’ll chop off his dick if you want.”

_That’s more like it._

Sansa broke away from the hug with a weak laugh, shaking her head, certain that her face was bright read. She ruffled Rickon’s hair, bid them both a good night, and then they were gone, leaving her alone. Alone with her husband. He still held Theodore in his arms, though the boy was clearly close to sleep.

“I’ll go out and wait for El.”

Sansa would have liked to meet Ellie, but her husband disappeared before she had a chance to speak.

By the time Sandor returned Sansa had made the bed and finished the washing up. She moved towards the living space, but Sandor shook his head.

“I’ll tidy it,” he said. “You should get ready for bed.”

Sansa ducked into the bathroom and willed her heart to calm down. She placed her hands on either side of the sink, taking deep breaths. With shaking hands she untied her braid. _I can do this._ When she walked out she found her husband standing next to a now-tidy sofa. Sandor had a frown on his face, head tilted slightly to the side. He was looking at a cushion, and Sansa would have giggled if she wasn’t so nervous.

“What is it?” She asked.

Her husband turned around the cushion, which had been thoroughly decorated- well, ruined- by crayons. Sansa’s mouth fell open.

“Oh-my-gosh-I’m-so-sorry-”

Sandor just shook his head, and Sansa snapped her mouth shut. _I should have noticed this. I should have been paying attention. Will he snap? Will he be angry?_

“Think it was Rickon?”

Sansa startled out of her thoughts, her eyes darting to Sandor’s. She nodded, biting her lip.

“Yeah, I think so too,” Sandor said. “He’s a better artist than Theo, that’s for sure.”

“I think it’s meant to be a house,” Sansa said, her voice very quiet.

“What’re these, do you think?” He gestured to a strange variety of squiggles beside the house.

“Maybe people? Oh, perhaps it’s meant to be home.”

Sandor just nodded, throwing the cushion back on the sofa. Then he looked up at her and his eyes, dark as steel, softened. He sighed.

“It’s fine, Sansa.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

There was an awkward pause.

“There’s- there’s food for you, if you’d like some.”

“Have you eaten?”

“Yes. I hope I left enough for you…”

“What is it?”

“Pasta bake. I’m sorry, I didn’t have much time-”

“Best get ready for bed,” Sandor said. “Been a long day for the both of us.”

Sansa nodded, summoning up just a shred of confidence and speaking before anxiety prevented her.

“Are you staying tonight?”

“Yeah, little bird,” Sandor said. “I’ll stay.”


	9. Pillow Talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Sorry about the title of this chapter, it made me laugh for some reason. As you may notice, this is a short chapter- I wrote it in a fluffy mood and decided not to lengthen it. The next chapter is very long (4000+) and it's from Sandor's POV. I am considering posting it early to make up for this short one, but if I don't it will be up in two days as usual.
> 
> Thank you so much for the awesome response to the last chapter- so many comments and views and kudos- wow! I'm really glad you seem to be enjoying- how are we nearing 4000 views in only two weeks?!
> 
> I hope you enjoy this silly little chapter; I love hearing your thoughts :)

## Chapter Nine: Pillow talk

###  **Sansa**

The clink of dishes subsided, and Sansa heard her husband enter the bathroom. She kept her eyes shut against the yellow glow from the light, usually so soft but now harsh creeping into the dark of the bedroom. Their bedroom.  _ Our bedroom. _

“Sansa?”

Sansa’s eyes flickered open, and she almost answered but realised it was night, remembered what  _ night _ meant. It was the third night of her marriage-  _ remember the first night?-  _ and they had still not.... Perhaps that was what he wanted to do now. But if she was asleep.... _ Remember what he’s going to do to you?  _ Joffrey’s words were biting and hard in her memory.  _ He’ll bruise you, take you by force. You’ll be his bitc-  _ Sansa flinched, screwing her eyes shut, her entire body going rigid.

“I know you’re awake.”

Sansa muffled a whimper with the duvet, ducking her head, a few tears leaking from her eyes. They ran sideways down her face and Sansa held back a sob.  _ This is it, tonight, when he changes into the person Joffrey said he would be, the husband mother taught me about, the man Arya offered to steal me away from.  _ She realised she was shaking, because  _ he said he knows I’m awake and I should never have pretended otherwise. I’ve made it all worse because I tried to deceive him and now I’ve made him angry because of my pretence; why am I like this? Gods, what’s wrong with me? It’s my wifely duty. Every woman goes through this. I must be- I- I- _

“Sansa, breathe. You’re fine. I'm not going to touch you.”

Sansa’s breath hitched in confusion.

“I just -  _ ah, _ seven hells.”

Sansa relaxed a miniscule amount. She trusted his word, at least, and he didn’t sound angry, only resigned.  _ He said he wouldn’t take me by force, he said it yesterday and now again today; perhaps he truly means it, perhaps I’m safe.  _ A sharp intake of breath from beside her snatched Sansa from her thoughts.

“I wanted to thank you for dinner,” Sandor said, mumbling the sentence in a rush, rendering the individual words barely audible. Sansa let all her breath out in one loud sigh. She felt the bed dip as Sandor slid in next to her, a very slight tug on the duvet signalling that he was there.

“You’re fine,” he said again, before she could panic. “Breathe.”

Sansa did as her husband suggested, taking in a few deep breaths before speaking.

“You liked it? Um, dinner?”

“Yeah. It was really good. Uh, thanks. I... left some spare, so I'll take it to work tomorrow, if that's okay?”

His voice shot up a little at the end, almost as if he was nervous- as if he was asking for her  _ permission  _ to take the food. Curiosity won out over fear and Sansa turned over, coming face to face with Sandor. He was far on his side of the bed, a look of surprise overtaking his features before he smoothed them into his usual frown. He shuffled a little, as if to turn around, but Sansa stopped him with a smile.

“You like pasta?” She asked, grasping the first words that came to mind.

Sandor relaxed and nodded, no longer trying to turn, and Sansa tried not to smile too widely.

“Yeah. My mother used to-” Sandor broke off, mumbling something. Sansa said nothing, and he spoke again after a few moments. “We would have like a huge lasagna, and she would always intend to freeze half of it, but we'd end up eating it all in one go.”

Sansa giggled, then laughed harder at Sandor’s reaction, the whites of his eyes appearing in shock at her response.

“Pancakes,” she said, enjoying when he frowned in confusion. “We would have something similar with pancakes. My father would flip the pancakes to make a stack, but it never became high enough for an actual stack since one of my brothers would always snatch them.”

“Or Arya, I expect.”

“Yes.” Sansa smiled at the memory. “Or Arya.” Then she remembered what he had overhead Arya say;  _ how much did he overhear, anyway?-  _ and her face fell.

“It's okay,” Sandor said..

“But-”

He shook his head, his hair dark against the white of the pillow.

“She looks out for you,” he continued. “It's... having a sibling who looks out for you like that, whether you want them to or not... It’s.... I......” He seemed to be struggling for words.

“Like Ellie?” Sansa suggested.

“Yeah, she’s always complaining about stupid stuff.”

“What like?”

“Socks,” he said. “Most my socks have holes in. And food, you know, how frozen vegetables aren't as good as fresh and that shit. She'd be even more concerned if she saw the tinned food I eat. At my apartment I hide them when she visits.”

Sansa giggled.

“You don't cook?”

“I  _ can  _ cook, and I like it... I'm just usually too tired after work.”

_ Now you have me to cook for you,  _ Sansa thought, something strange bubbling up, an emotion she didn’t quite recognise.

“Also, Stranger demands a lot of attention.”

“Stranger?”

“My dog.”

_ ”You have a dog?” _

“Aye, he’s a grumpy bastard. Loves other dogs, hates most people.” Sandor’s voice was gruff with barely contained affection.

_ A bit like you, from what I’ve seen so far. _

“What breed?”

“German shepherd crossed with some kind of mastiff.”

“Ooh, he sounds big.”

“Yeah. You like dogs?”

“I love dogs. I have - had- a husky.”

“What happened to her?”

“Oh, she's back-” Sansa broke off before she could say the word  _ home.  _ “She’s back at my parents’ estate.”

“She’s good?”

Sansa frowned.

“She behaves?”

“Oh  _ yes. _ ” Pride coloured Sansa’s voice. “Lady is the best behaved out of the whole litter, she loves everyone.”

Sandor’s lips quirked upwards in an almost-smile, and Sansa tried not to stare, but she couldn’t help but mirror it with a soft smile of her own.

“Lady,” he said, the word soft. “Of course. Is she courteous?”

It was an odd question but if she thought about it, Lady truly lived up to her name.

“Very,” Sansa said. “She doesn't beg at the table or anything like that.”

“Loud?”

“Quite reserved,” Sansa said. “She doesn't really bark.”

“Fancy accent? Does she chirp?”

Sansa frowned, not understanding. Then Sandor let out a chuckle and her eyes widened.

“You- you're-!” 

He was teasing her!

“She sounds nice,” Sandor said, mirth in his tone still.

“Oh, she is.”

“She sounds like you.”

Sansa flushed, wondering if he realised he had given her a compliment. Apparently so, since he frowned, looking as if he might take it back. Sansa changed the topic quickly, reverting back to food.

“Oh- um, is there anything in particular you'd like me to cook for you?”

“You don't have to.”

She frowned and he chuckled at her again, and Sansa decided that she rather liked this version of her husband, his voice a low rumble, his features softened by night, his huge body so harmless when wrapped in the duvet. Sansa remembered abruptly that they were sharing a duvet and swallowed, her throat right.  _ Our bodies really aren’t very far apart, and if he wanted to, he could reach out an arm and-  _ she remembered his shadowy form on their wedding night, heavy on hers. He hadn’t really  _ hurt  _ her, but he had been so strong, and it would be so  _ easy _ for him, and well within his rights.  _ But he said he won’t touch me. I’ve no reason to doubt his word.  _ Sansa realised that silence had fallen between them, and raised her eyes slowly, dragging them up the length of his body. Sandor was watching her, his face a mask. Sansa offered him a tremulous smile.

“I’d like to.”

Another long stretch of silence followed.

“Meat,” Sandor finally said. “I like meat. There's uh, a chicken in the fridge I think. If you wanted to make that we wouldn't need to cook anything for the next few meals. If you wanted to.”

Sansa’s smile grew less tentative.

“You uh, have foods you like?” Sandor asked.

She repressed a giggle at his unrefined, clumsy manner of questioning. _ I told Arya I wanted to get to know him, and now the gods have gifted me this opportunity, I won't waste it by making him think I'm laughing at him. _

“Yes,” Sansa said, “I really like sweet foods, and anything with lemons. Oh, and sushi.”

Sandor wrinkled his nose.

“Too small,” he muttered. “Tricky to pick up.”

Sansa shook her head.

“No,” she insisted, used to defending her love of sushi to her brothers. “There's different types and different sizes and-” She broke off, remembering too late the importance of obeying her husband.  _ I should not contradict him.  _ “I tried to make it once,” she said, “But it didn’t go well.”

“Perhaps you could try again. With me, I mean.”

Sandor looked as surprised at his words as Sansa felt.

“I’d like that. But I thought you didn't like sushi?”

“I'll let you convert me.”

Sansa beamed at him, strangely overcome by emotion. She didn’t speak, only smiled. Sandor nodded.

“We'll uh, go to the supermarket at some point. If you want.”

Sansa nodded. “That would be nice.”

“Great. It's uh, a plan.”

Sansa was still smiling at him, and she thought for a moment that Sandor might smile back, but instead he just looked into her eyes and that was almost as good, because his eyes were like the moon, all different shades of silver close up. He abruptly looked away, and Sansa dropped her gaze, left to wonder at her sudden boldness. Sandor cleared his throat.

“Right,” he said. “Well...”

“Yes?”

“Uh... should sleep now,” he said.

He turned over, pulling some of the duvet with him. Instead of letting go, Sansa shuffled closer- just a few centimetres, nothing really- but closer nonetheless.

“Goodnight,” she whispered.

“Night, Sansa. Sleep well.”

_ I will.  _ Sansa wasn’t sure when it had happened, but her tears had dried on her face, replaced with a smile.  _ Goodnight, Sandor. _


	10. Shopping (part one)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I started this chapter, I wasn’t sure I’d have enough to make into a full chapter. ‘It’s only shopping’, I thought, like a fool. Now here I am, with over 7000 words of a sansan shopping trip. I’ve split it into two chapters, so here is the first. Part two will be groceries, up in a couple days as usual.
> 
> I suppose the real question is: does this count as a date? A first date, even?
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading this story- somehow we’ve sped past 4000 hits and 250 kudos- awesome! :D I hope September is treating you well so far and I hope you enjoy this strangely domestic, detail-filled shopping trip. Let me know what you think!
> 
> (also for the texting the contact names would technically be sandor/bronn because of the borrowing of phones but that would get confusing so I just made them sansa/sandor)

## Chapter Ten: Shopping (part one- clothes)

###  **Sandor**

“For fucks sake, Bronn, give me the phone and leave me be.”

_I should have guessed there would be a catch when he agreed to lend me his phone. Should have just got a brick in the meantime. Useless buggering bastard._ Bronn danced out of the way as Sandor made a swipe for the phone.

“Not ‘til you tell me what news you’ve got.”

“ _Bronn-_ ”

“You’ve got a text,” Bronn said, putting on a sing-song voice that made Sandor’s blood boil. “Guess who it’s from.”

“I’ll text her from Brienne’s phone then,” Sandor said, turning away.

“Brienne’s not here. It’s her day off.” Bronn was grinning now. “Shall we see what Sansa’s said?”

_“I’ll kill you.”_

Bronn looked a little perturbed.

“I’m your friend,” he said. “You’re suddenly living with a girl that doesn’t have a phone. Come on, what am I meant to think?”

“I don’t bloody care what you think so long as you give me the phone.”

“So she _does_ live with you- is she one of those mail order brides? Did you get her shipped over from another country? _Gods,_ is it like ninety-day fi--”

Sandor took a step forward and Bronn finally relented. With a heavy sigh, he surrendered his phone. Sandor opened the text.

“So you _are_ living together, then?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he muttered.

“The Sandor I know would never-”

_“Don’t,”_ Sandor snarled. He glanced up from the phone and sighed as he met Bronn’s gaze. Behind his friend’s teasing, he was obviously offended at best, possibly even hurt. “She needed my help,” Sandor said, softening his voice as best as he knew how. “She’s a friend.”

“She doesn’t have a phone?”

"Not yet."

“When do I get to meet her?”

“Bronn-” Sandor tried to inject warning into his voice but Bronn was having none of it.

“Who does she even talk to, except for you? Come on, she could meet Margaery, and we could catch up _properly._ ”

“I don’t know, Bronn. Margaery is….”

“A bit intense?”

“I was going to say fucking insane,” Sandor said. “But fine. I’ll ask Sansa. And she’ll say no. And then I’ll get her a phone and you can bugger off.”

“Sounds perfect.”

Sandor glanced down at the message.

**sansa:** sorry to bother you at work, might I speak to Sandor?

**sandor:** hi it’s sandor- need me to call?

**sansa:** no, I’m sorry, it’s nothing important

**sansa:** I was just wondering what you would like for dinner

**sansa:** there’s not much in the fridge

**sansa:** this is a really stupid thing to bother you about, I’m sorry

**sandor:** it’s fine.

**sandor:** sorry there isn’t much in the fridge.

**sandor:** there isn’t chicken?

**sansa:** no, I’m sorry, I should have checked before

**sandor:** it’s fine. want to come into town and do some shopping?

**sandor:** you could call an uber from my phone. if you want.

**sansa:** are you happy to do this today- won’t you be too tired after work?

_She thinks I’ll be coming too?_

**sandor:** you could just go on your own?

**Sansa is typing. Sansa is online. Sansa is offline.**

_How could I possibly have messed this up? What does she need for shopping? She just needs to buy food- oh,_ _fuck._ _She needs to_ _buy_ _food._

**sandor:** do you need money? you can access it on the phone.

**sansa:** Oh. Thank you. It’s perfectly fine, I have enough money. Thank you, though.

**sandor:** you’re all set then?

**sansa:** yes, I suppose so. Is there anything you would like for dinner?

**sandor:** you don’t need to cook for me.

**sansa:** oh. I shouldn’t cook for you?

Sandor groaned, running a hand over his face.

“Girl trouble?”

_“Gods, Bronn!_ How long’ve you just been standing there?”

“The entire time you’ve been glaring at the phone.”

“Look at this then.”

_She’s not said anything that could hint at our situation; Bronn won’t be any wiser._ To Sandor’s surprise, Bronn just laughed.

“You’re awful. She wants you with her.”

“No she doesn’t.”

“She does.”

“Believe me, she doesn’t.” _If you only knew…._

“Ask her then.”

“Fine.”

**sandor:** anything is fine for dinner. just make whatever you want. do you want me to come with, meet you at the shopping centre?

**sansa:** after work? will you be too tired?

“Told you so,” Bronn said.

“She clearly doesn’t want me near her.”

“She’s living with you, Sandor. Clearly she-”

Sandor must have let his expression fall into a grimace because Bronn broke off. He looked like he might do something ridiculous, like try to comfort him. Sandor glanced at the clock. _Five minutes left of lunch and then I’ll be left alone._

“Do you want to go shopping with her?” Bronn asked.

“Seven hells,” Sandor swore. “I don’t care. Just want this ridiculous conversation over.”

“So tell her. That you don’t mind, not that last bit.”

Sandor said nothing.

**sandor:** half day today, little bird. won’t be too tired. don’t mind if you want time to yourself though.

**sansa:** it would be really nice to see you, if you’re sure

Sandor snorted. He wasn’t sure anyone considered it nice to _see_ him.

**sandor:** 3pm at the shopping centre. Bring the phone. Lmk if you change your mind.

**Sansa:** lmk?

**sandor:** means let me know.

**sansa:** oh! thank you. I will lyk when I get there :)

Sandor stared at the message. _Lyk? Is that meant to be some- let you know?_ Gods, the girl was strange. _There’s clearly something wrong with her; what could she hope to achieve by going shopping together? Well, I’ll humour her. No doubt something will go wrong and she’ll regret this little trip, and won’t ask me again. Good._

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

He found Sansa just after three, staring at the window of a shop Sandor had only braved once. It was a sewing shop, and Ellie had dragged him inside. Sandor’s head throbbed just from the memory of the low doorway. The shop lay at the edge of the shopping centre, not large or flashy enough to be a part of it. Sansa was staring intently through the glass and didn’t notice his approach. She wore a sky blue sundress that she must have been freezing in, form fitting at the top and flaring into a skirt that ended just above the knee. She had added a pink denim jacket- _I didn’t even know they made those in pink-_ and tied her hair in a loose braid that rested halfway down her back, a few tendrils escaping. She held a grey rucksack that Sandor immediately deemed as being far too small to hold anything useful.

“Nice dress,” Sandor said, only a touch of sarcasm in his voice. _She isn’t even wearing tights,_ he realised as he approached. _Gods, don’t look at her legs. Don’t._ Sandor forced his eyes to her face.

“Oh! Hello husband,” she said, smiling up at him. 

Sandor felt like he had been punched in the stomach; he wanted to wince at that word, but gods, that smile stole his breath.

“And thank you,” Sansa continued. “I um, made it. It’s a bit summery, but I don’t have many casual clothes.”

Sandor let his eyes trace her body under the pretence of admiring the dress. _It_ _is_ _nice, even if it’s for summer like she said._ Memories of Sansa in only a thin nightdress leapt to his mind but Sandor crushed them down quickly. _We should buy her some more suitable pajamas on this little trip too. Shit, she’s just looking at me, and I haven’t even said hello._

“Right, uh, hello. You should call me Sandor in public.”

She looked up at him, and he wondered if he ought to snap at her, bark out that _‘otherwise when your expression inevitably turns fearful when I fuck up, everyone will think I’ve kidnapped and raped you, and though that isn’t so far from the truth, the last thing I want to deal with is the police.’_ He opened his mouth to speak, though the words tasted like acid clawing up his throat, hitting a little too close to home. But then she smiled and nodded, those wondrous blue eyes meeting his empty grey ones.

“Okay,” she said, her voice as soft as the curve of her lips. “Okay, Sandor.”

He could have sworn his heart stopped beating; _fuck, she’ll be the death of me._ Sandor averted his gaze quickly and nodded at the window of the shop.

“See something you like?” _I know I do. No, don’t be a leering creep. Gods, I’m disgusting._

Sansa nodded, her eyes never leaving his.

“Oh?” Sandor prompted.

“Oh, um, it’s nothing,” Sansa said, finally breaking their gaze. “I was just trying to figure out how they made this dress.”

Sandor looked at the dress in question.

“Right,” he said. “You sew, don’t you?”

“Yes, when I have the time.”

“So does my sister. You have one of those machines?”

“Oh, I did. It’s….” She hesitated.

“Back at your parents’ estate?”

“Yes.” Sansa’s voice had grown very quiet.

“You should have someone bring it over. Would give you something to do all day.”

_Shit, what am I doing? This is only a temporary arrangement, there’s no need to waste time with things like this. Then again, it won’t be too difficult to take it back to their estate once this annulment is through, and if it makes her happier…._

“If you’d like,” Sandor finished. “Could bring it over if you’d like.”

“That would be wonderful,” Sansa admitted. “I could fix any of your clothes if there’s any that need fixing, if it would please you.”

It was the second time she had offered to do that and Sandor found himself just as flustered as the first time. He decided on a complete change of subject.

“They might have a blueprint- whatever it’s called- for that dress,” he suggested. “Could go in and ask.”

Sansa giggled. Sandor stared at her, incredulous, and she covered her mouth.

“I’m sorry,” she said, colour spriging to her cheeks. “Did you say a _blueprint_?”

Sandor shrugged, his face settling back into a scowl.

"I don't sew," he muttered.

“Would you really not mind if I went in and asked quickly?”

“Of course not.”

“Thank you. Oh, and I must give you back your phone.”

Her fingers brushed his as she passed Sandor his phone. She walked towards the shop door.

“I won’t be long,” Sansa assured him. “Oh, and it’s a pattern, by the way.”

There was laughter in the lilt of her voice and Sandor turned around in surprise, but she was gone. He weighed his phone in his hand and without knowing why, opened the camera and took a photo of the dress in the window. It wasn’t anything special, kind of drab around the window mannequin, but Sandor had no doubt that Sansa would look amazing in it. If there was anything she seemed to understand, it was how to look good. _She could have some kind of career in fashion, or dress-making surely, if she can make dresses like that. I wonder if she does have a job; I don’t even know if she’s been educated._

Sansa emerged a few minutes later, blinking in the light. She was a good actress, or else her mood was so jubilant that even his presence failed to ruin it, since her smile didn’t slip at all when she saw him.

“I’m sorry for the wait,” she said. She clutched a cardboard tube.

“It’s fine,” Sandor muttered. “You got what you wanted?”

They began walking into the shopping centre.

“Oh, yes!” Sansa was still beaming. “They didn’t even charge me for the- blueprint-” she watched him for his reaction. Sandor just raised his eyebrows, eliciting a small laugh from Sansa. “Um, they didn’t charge me, which was wonderful, and they had some beautiful fabrics in there too. I can’t believe I’ve never been to that shop before.”

“You don’t come into town often?”

“I’m more used to the shops up North,” she said. “What else do they have here?”

“Lots of clothes shops, supermarkets, nothing special.” Then again, he didn’t think much of that sewing shop either, so perhaps there were other obscure places Sansa would like. “Think there’s a bookshop somewhere. Bakery. Uh, the usual crap. Florist, probably.”

“Hm.” She seemed deep in thought. Sandor waited for her to speak. “Are we just going to the supermarket?”

“Thought we could get some clothes too.”

“Oh, what do you need?”

Sandor snorted.

“Not for me, little bird.”

There was a long pause.

“What clothes would you have me wear?” Sansa finally asked.

“Whatever you want,” Sandor muttered. “You said you don’t have many casual clothes, maybe you’ll need more for when you want to come out to town. And…. pajamas.”

“You don’t like my--” Sansa broke off. “What would you h-”

“I don’t ca- don’t mind, Sansa. Something more comfortable, hells, I don’t know. You don’t have to.”

“Some- some winter pajamas perhaps wouldn't go amiss,” Sansa said. “Are you certain that you can spare the time for all of this?”

“Got nothing else to do today, little bird. Was just going to look through the finances of the estate.” _In order to sell it, but she doesn’t need to know that._

“Oh, would you like any help?” Sansa’s voice was bright but held an edge to it that Sandor couldn’t place.

“You’d help me with financial shit?” He made no effort to disguise the surprise in his voice.

“If it would please you, I would. I quite enjoy practical matters like money management, so I would be happy to help with that, if you wish it.”

“Aye, I’ll keep that in mind. Uh, thanks.” Sandor rushed onwards before Sansa had a chance to respond to that. “You ever thought about a career in economics or something?”

Sansa just shook her head and didn’t speak. When Sandor stole a glance at her, she had a wistful look on her face and he grabbed her arm before she swerved into a bench.

“Oh!” Sansa said. “I’m sorry-”

“It’s fine. Are you okay?”

“I was lost in thought, I suppose. Where- where are we going first?”

“This place does clothes and food,” Sandor suggested. _Please don’t let her be the kind of person that wants to go to a dozen shops and spends an hour in each._

“That sounds great,” Sansa said.

Sandor quickly learnt that he did not belong in the women’s clothing section, but Sansa, instead of letting him wait in a corner with their shopping cart, kept pausing as she walked as if expecting him to catch up. Like a fool, Sandor followed her.

“So,” he said, “Pajamas and casual clothes? What do you normally wear?”

“Usually dresses,” Sansa said, so that was where she led him, smiling to herself as she quickly found a knee length dress that looked almost identical to the one she was wearing.

"Which colour do you prefer?" She was holding up one dress in a bright, jade green and the other in deep purple.

“Both are nice,” Sandor said. “You going to try them on?”

“If you can spare the time-”

“Yeah. It’s fine.”

She grabbed several more dresses, and her fingertips brushed a green blouse.

“That’s nice,” Sandor said.

“I could wear it with one of my skirts perhaps,” Sansa said.

“Or trousers.”

Sansa turned to him.

“I, um, don’t own any.”

“You don’t own any trousers? _Any?”_

“Well, I have one pair for when I go hiking with my brothers.”

“You just don’t wear trousers?” For some reason the concept perturbed Sandor. Perhaps it was because he couldn’t fathom Sansa getting through winter in only dresses. Especially Northern winters. She would have to wear tights, but that probably wouldn’t be enough. Images of thigh-high boots and long coats sprang to Sandor’s mind. _Stop it. Have some self-control._

“I suppose not,” Sansa shrugged. “They aren’t very…. feminine.”

“ Your mother say that?”

“Yes.”

“You want to wear trousers, wear them.”

“That’s what Arya says.”

“Neither of them are here now, are they?”

A smile played on Sansa’s lips.

“No,” she said, “They aren’t.”

She took the green blouse from the rail and Sandor followed her to the straight trousers, the type that might be worn to work. _No jeans yet,_ he thought. _No, I am_ _not_ _thinking about her in jeans-_ Sandor tried to think of the most unsexy thing possible. Sansa, entirely oblivious, had found several pairs of tights and one pair of straight black trousers to add to the increasing pile of clothes in the shopping cart.

“Sandor?”

Sandor jumped at the sound of his name. He stared at Sansa.

“Uh…. yeah?”

_Gods if she would just say my name one more time I would die happy I swear it._

“Sorry,” Sansa said. “I said, I’ll, um, try the dresses on now if that’s alright?”

“Right. Yeah. Of course.”

Sansa disappeared inside the women’s changing room. Sandor lounged outside, grateful that they had at least placed a sofa outside. Sansa returned far quicker than Sandor had expected.

“Um, what do you think?”

Sandor looked up at her and the words stuck in his throat. The dress was beautiful, cut similarly to the dress Sansa had been wearing before but with one noticeable difference. There was a cut out at the top that revealed the top of her, just a slight slope. It wasn’t even cleavage, it was just… skin, but it was skin he hadn’t seen before, it was Sansa. Sandor wanted to reach out and trace the edge of the material, wanted to brush his fingers across the skin that showed, and _yes of course_ he wanted to dip his hand lower but that didn’t matter. That didn’t matter because he wasn’t going to touch her. Not at all. Not her bare arms or that little bit of skin showing through the cut out… and not the rest of her. Especially not the rest of her. _Gods,_ the girl was beautiful, long legs leading to that rich purple hugging the dip of her waist. _She’s not mine,_ Sandor reminded himself. _She’s not mine, and never will be, and I need to say something because she’s just squirming under my gaze and I need to stop being such a creep._

“Uh, yeah,” Sandor said.

“I thought perhaps it’s not suitable for winter, since it’s sleeveless. Perhaps I should have picked up the darker blue.”

“Want me to go get it?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t wish to trouble you--” She was shaking her head.

“It’s no trouble.” He stood up. “Dark blue, same dress?”

Sansa hesitated. “Yes please,” she finally said. “Oh, but- um, long sleeved, if you can find it.”

“Sure.”

She told him her size and turned back to the fitting room.

“Uh, Sansa?”

Those bright blue eyes returned to him.

“It’s beautiful,” Sandor said. “You. The dress. You in the dress.”

He turned around after that, cursing himself and Sansa and the dress and all of it, pretending not to hear the little _‘thank you’_ called after him.

Sandor found the dresses easily enough, grateful that there was no one else around to make him feel like even more of a monster. He riffled through the dresses, finally finding a navy long sleeved dress in the style Sansa seemed to like. After a moment's hesitation, he also grabbed one the colour of rust. As he returned to the sofa outside the changing room, Sandor realised that the neckline of the rust dress dipped lower than anything else he had seen Sansa wear before. He paused for a moment. _I don’t want her thinking she has to wear this. I’ll put it back._ He stood up.

“Oh, did you find the blue one?”

_Shit._

“Here.” There was a pause. Sandor noticed that she had changed into the green dress.

“Green,” he said, like an utter fool. “Uh, nice.”

“Oh, yes, I like the colour, but it’s far too low at the back.” Sansa turned around and swept her braid over her shoulder, revealing what was indeed a _very_ low backed dress. Sandor said nothing, the image of her pale skin lingering in his mind long after she turned back around. “I don’t know why they would make the back so low, but I didn’t think it would be very good for the cold. But I can get the green blouse instead, I think.” She broke off, waiting for his reply. Sandor tried to blink away all memories of her bare skin, failing spectacularly.

“Right, uh, green. Dress. Probably not good for winter.”

“Exactly.” She was now staring at the dress in Sandor’s hand.

“Ah,” Sandor said, grateful for something else to focus on. “I don’t know. I liked the colour.”

“You don’t think it would be too much with my hair?”

“I dunno anything about clothes,” Sandor muttered. “But it’d look nice on you.”

Sansa reached for it.

“I’m not sure about the neckline, though,” he said. “You might not like it.”

“I’ll try it on. Thank you.”

She didn’t come out in any of the other clothes, and Sandor wondered if he had made a mistake and insulted her somehow, though she hadn’t seemed upset, and she was certainly happy when she emerged, her arms full of clothes. Apart from the green dress, she decided to keep the rest.

“All the rest?”

“Do you think it’s too much?”

“Nah, not if you need clothes, and you like them.”

Sansa nodded.

“Thank you for waiting as I tried them on.”

“Right, of course.”

As they walked past the pajamas Sansa took two pairs down and held them up. _What am I meant to do, approve her clothing?_ Sandor shrugged and Sansa placed both in the shopping cart.

“Do you need anything for yourself?” Sansa asked.

“Don’t think so. Winter boots maybe, but that can wait.”

Still, they meandered through the men’s clothing section, Sansa occasionally brushing a shirt with her fingers on the way past.

“Nothing?” She asked. Sandor saw her throw a glance into their shopping cart piled with clothes for her.

“Maybe socks,” Sandor said with a shrug. He grabbed a packet quickly, the biggest size they had, boring and plain black.

“I suppose that solves the issue of finding matching socks,” Sansa said when she saw what he had chosen. Sandor huffed a laugh, tossing the socks into the cart.

“Found anything interesting?”

Sansa shook her head, nodding at rows of ties.

“Just ties,” she said.

“I don’t think I even own a tie,” Sandor muttered.

“You didn’t wear one at the ball?”

“Nope.”

“Will…. Will we be attending the next ball?”

“You can go if you want.”

“You won’t be attending?”

“You would want me there?” Sandor made his voice hard and mocking, his features settling into a scowl.

“Yes,” Sansa said quickly, her eyes darting up to meet his. “It would be nice to attend together, if it pleases you.”

Her sudden confidence caught him off guard and Sandor found himself shocked out of irritation. _'It would be nice to attend together’. It would be nice for us to be together. She wants to do something with me. There must be some stigma against just one half of a couple going to a ball and not the other. Not that we’re a couple. Well, we are to them, but- ah, shit. Whatever. It’ll keep her happy for now._ Wordlessly, Sandor reached out for a tie and held one out. As he turned back to Sansa he caught a glimpse of a flash of hurt across her features. _What have I done this time?_ She quickly softened the look away, turning her attention to the tie.

“This one?” Sandor asked.

It was purple and plain and entirely unremarkable. Sansa looked at it and hesitated.

“What is it?”

“I think the blue would be nice,” Sansa said. She lowered her voice to little more than a mumble. “Would be nice with the grey of your eyes.”

_Did I imagine her saying that?_ Sandor avoided her gaze. He reached up to put the purple back.

“No- um, if you- I didn’t mean to-”

“Blue’s fine.” Sandor chucked the blue tie into the shopping cart. “Matches your eyes more than mine though.”

Sansa’s response was immediate. She blushed prettily- _what_ _doesn’t_ _she do prettily?-_ and said nothing for a moment. When she did speak, however, her voice held a note of confidence that Sandor had not expected.

“In that case,” Sansa said, “It sounds like _I_ need to find something to wear that matches _your_ eyes.”

_What the fuck am I meant to say to that?_ Sansa’s eyes widened a little and she dropped her gaze; _probably didn’t think about what she was saying._ Sandor was saved from a response by someone calling his name.

“Sandor!”

For a heartbeat Sandor praised the gods for the interruption, but his elation was short-lived. There was only one person stupid enough to sound so happy to see him.

“Hi Sandor!” Ellie said again, wheeling up to them. She was grinning, looking up at Sandor and Sansa as if they were everything she had ever hoped for. _Shit, I need to come up with an explanation for who Sansa is._

“Hello,” Sansa said.

“Ah,” Ellie said, with that same grin stuck on her face, “I recognise that voice.” She cast a knowing look at their shared shopping cart and raised her eyebrows. Sandor just shook his head, though he didn’t know exactly what he was trying to deny; _we_ _are_ _out shopping together, I suppose._ Ellie turned her attention to Sansa.

“You must be Sansa.”


	11. Shopping (part two)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone and thank you so much for the amazing response to the last chapter- more hits than I've had before, putting us up to 5000 total, which just feels like a crazy amount! I hope you're enjoying- here is part two of shopping.
> 
> The next chapter will finally see the return of Brienne as well as the first appearance of a new side character (Sandor's POV). I'm having a bit of a tough time writing at the moment but should be able to stick to my two day schedule for now, so it will be up in a couple days.
> 
> I hope you're all doing well, and please do let me know what you think :)

## Chapter Eleven: Shopping (part two- groceries)

###  **Sandor**

“You must be Sansa.”

“Oh, hi-” Sansa broke off, her gaze flickering from Sandor to his sister, back and forth. Sandor was desperate to growl out some bitter comment- and he would have done, if not for Ellie being there. Any sensible man feared Ellie’s wrath.

“You must be Ellie, then,” Sansa said. “I can see the resemblance.”

Sandor snorted; _that’s a ridiculous comment._ Both women ignored him.

“Please to finally meet you. Sandor hurried me away so quickly yesterday, said you were tired, so I didn’t get to thank you for looking after Theo. I must have you over to dinner to thank you. Sandor- I suppose you can come as well," Ellie said. Sandor rolled his eyes. _So this is her revenge for me not allowing her to meet Sansa before. What’s next- is she going to put flowers on the table and leave the room? Call it a date? She needs to stop bloody interfering.  
_

“It was a pleasure meeting Theo,” Sansa said, seemingly blissfully unaware of Ellie’s scheming. “He’s very well behaved- compared to Rickon, at least.”

Ellie chuckled. “Now that Jon’s home they’re back to their usual chaotic selves.”

“Oh, Jon! And your husband, too, I completely forgot- how are they?”

Sansa’s voice was so genuine that Sandor found himself taken aback. _She isn’t faking this,_ he realised. _She’s actually concerned._ The realisation was jarring. Sandor didn’t want to think about the implications of Sansa caring. _She’s just nice, courteous. That’s all. It’s not personal, and even if it was, it’s about Ellie and her family, not me._

“He’s just got a couple broken bones and a bit of a concussion. Could be much worse. He’ll be fine. I left the boys at home to look after him.” Ellie's wicked grin made Sandor wince in sympathy for her husband. “The car’s in a worse state than he is,” Ellie said. “Either of you happen to know a good mechanic?”

Sandor shook his head. 

“Mine only does bikes.”

“Nevermind, I-”

“Actually, I know one,” Sansa said. “My sister’s….. boyfriend…. he’s really good.”

_Arya has a boyfriend? That can’t have gone down well with her parents. I wonder if they even know._ Sansa was resolutely avoiding glancing in his direction.

“Oh, amazing! I don’t have your number- you have to give it to me! How else will we complain about Sandor?”

Ellie shot him a grin; Sandor met it with a scowl.

“Oh, yes! I mean- um, the phone bit-”

Sandor sighed. Sansa hesitated.

“I don’t know my number,” she lied. “But I’ll ask Sandor to give me your number once I get my phone back, if that’s okay?”

_Good excuse._ Sansa glanced at him and Sandor softened his expression as much as was possible, giving her a nod of approval.

“Amazing,” Ellie smiled. “Well, I’ll let you two continue with your shopping.”

She cast another knowing grin at their shared shopping cart.

“Keep an eye on my brother, Sansa. Nice to have finally met you.”

“Yes- um- I will. I mean, nice to meet you too.”

With that Ellie was gone, probably still grinning. Sandor sighed heavily. _It’s better like this; better that she doesn’t know the truth. She can just entertain the prospect of their being something between Sansa and I until she gets bored, and she never has to know the truth. It would only upset her.  
_

“I’m sorry,” Sansa said. “I wasn’t sure if that was the right response.”

“No, it was… good. Well done. That’ll stave her off for a while at least.”

“I don’t mind talking with her,” Sansa said, her voice still quiet. She didn’t look at him. “But I don’t want to intrude.”

“You would talk with her?”

“If it pleases you.”

Sandor felt the burnt side of his lips twitch.

“And would it please _you_?”

Another long pause. They continued walking down the shopping aisle.

“Yes,” Sansa finally said. “She seems very nice. I would like to get to know her.”

“Then I’ll send you her number once we get you a phone. But I don’t plan on telling her we’re married.”

Sandor hesitated. _Now is when I ought to drop the mask, as the Elder Brother says. I’m meant to let someone in, show some vulnerability. But she wouldn’t understand. I don’t even understand it myself. El and I hate the society; how can I possibly say that to Sansa without her taking offense? And why_ _shouldn’t_ _she take offense? Ellie would probably despise her and her family. How are they any different to the nobles that hid Gregor's abuse from the authorities two decades ago when we were kids?  
_

“I understand,” Sansa said, much to his surprise. “I’ll be sure not to tell anyone that doesn’t already know.”

_She probably thinks it’s because of her._ Sandor frowned at the realisation, but knew he wasn’t ready to tell her the truth. It would all unravel, he knew, and to tell her _everything,_ about Gregor and Ellie and the memories he had crushed down- it was too much. Instead he simply nodded.

Sansa continued, “I suppose I ought to not wear my ring in public either.”

_Ah, that explains the look of dismay before. She must have noticed I'm not wearing mine._ Sansa twisted her fingers together, avoiding his gaze.

“You don’t have to wear it,” Sandor said, wincing as her face crumpled further. “But if you wanted to, you could get a chain for it or something.”

“Like... wearing it as a necklace?”

“Sure.”

Sansa nodded. She still looked thoroughly miserable.

“Didn’t want it to get ruined at work,” Sandor said. “Would’ve got dirty if I wore it. And… I haven’t told people we’re married, since it was so sudden.”

Sansa was looking at him again now, and Sandor shrugged.

“It’s in my pocket,” he said.

“Will you be wearing it?” Sansa asked. “I mean- like you suggested- a necklace.”

Sandor scoffed and regretted it immediately when Sansa snapped her mouth shut. _Great, I’m a bloody fool. Shouldn’t have made this such a big deal, now I’ve gone and upset her, can’t I just wear the damn ring?_

“What about- uh- I could-”

Sansa looked at him expectantly.

“How else could I wear it?” Sandor asked.

“Oh! Um, you could keep it in your pocket still, but with a chain so it’s not likely to fall out.”

Sandor wrinkled his nose.

“Like a pocket watch?”

“Yes, like that. Or I could sew a small pocket so you could keep it there without the chain, so it’s just in a safe little pouch. Oh, I could sew a little pocket on the inside of a jacket so only you know where it is.”

“I don’t mind.”

Sansa’s face dropped for just a moment before she schooled it into neutrality, but Sandor noticed.

“The, uh, without a chain,” he said. _That’ll be less work for her than a chain._ “Then it’s easier to take out, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Sansa said, with a faint smile. “As long as you don’t drop it.”

Sandor snorted. “I’ll try not to. Secret little pocket sounds, uh, fine.”

“Will the coat you’re wearing be alright?”

Sandor tried not to laugh. He was wearing his ordinary jacket and it still held dust from his day at work.

“No, little bird,” he said. “I’ll give you my winter coat instead. I’ll start wearing that soon, seeing how cold it’s getting.”

“Yes,” Sansa said, her gaze growing wistful. “Winter is coming.”

“Missing home?”

“I- well- sorry-”

“‘S fine.”

Sansa nodded. She bit her bottom lip and Sandor looked away. He was grateful when she spoke again, giving his mind something to focus on that wasn’t those damn lips.

“Winters up North are wonderful,” Sansa said. “My family usually spend winter up North and come down South for summer. They say it’s the best of both worlds; hot summers and cold winters.”

_I suppose that means they’ll be going up North soon then._ Sandor didn’t speak again until they were in the lift, just the two of them, in awkward silence.

“You prefer the North?” He asked.

“Well, I um, I prefer winter in general,” Sansa said. “But I’ve never spent a winter here in the South.”

_I hope you never do,_ Sandor thought. _I need to tell her about this sham marriage and get her used to the idea of… of not me. I can’t tell her everything; like the Elder Brother said, that will destroy the idea of choice, and she’ll try too hard to please me….. I just want her to be happy naturally, to make choices by herself. But I can tell she doesn’t trust that I won’t force myself on her. As long as she thinks we’re going to fuck eventually, it feels like I’m walking a bloody knife edge. Especially when she dresses like_ _ that, _ _especially when she bites her lip, and especially when she smiles. At me. She’s smiling at me. Fuck. No, I need to suggest divorce, and she’ll probably say no because of how she’s been taught. Then I’ll try what the Elder Brother suggested, all this choice bullshit. And I need to tell her again I’m not going to fuck her. Not unless she wants me to. Which she won’t. Obviously. Why would she? How can she even look at me like that, smiling like I’m not some scarred old dog she was forced to marry? Fuck, what’s she saying?_

“What?”

“I was just wondering if we need more washing up liquid? The bottle by the sink is nearly out.”

“Oh. Sure.”

Sansa had led them out of the lift towards the food, and was smiling to herself as she picked up items.

“This milk, isn’t it? Semi-skimmed?”

Sandor could only nod.

“Yeah, uh, if that one’s good for you?”

“Perfect,” Sansa said. 

They settled into something of a pattern, with Sansa calling out food suggestions and Sandor agreeing to everything. They reached the vegetable section and Sansa hesitated.

“Do you like stir fry?”

“Sure.”

Sandor wandered towards the potatoes as Sansa picked out vegetables suitable for stir fry. They were loose, with little plastic bags by the side. He reached for one, and suddenly Sansa was by his side, with reusable cotton bags from her little rucksack.

“Oh, um, I have these, if you like. They let you use your own bags for this, because of the plastic, and the environment and all that.”

“Right.”

“Arya used to shout at me any time I forgot cotton bags. I didn’t like being told off by my younger sister in a supermarket, so I guess it became habit.”

“Of course she’s an environment nut,” Sandor muttered. “Sorry.”

“Oh, it’s alright. She is…. quite full on. I’m just grateful she channeled her energy into something…..”

“Non-destructive?”

“Yes,” Sansa agreed. “Though she threatens poachers so often that I do worry sometimes.”

“Ah, those fuckers have it coming.”

Together they filled two cotton bags with various potatoes- ordinary potatoes and sweet potatoes because Sansa insisted that they were amazing. Sandor huffed a laugh at her surprise when he said he had never tried them, and laughed outright when she grabbed several and placed them into the bag, looking extremely pleased with herself. Sandor was fairly certain she had thrown something ridiculous in the bag as well, something like a yam or celeriac, but he was struggling to pay attention. He _tried,_ of course, but it was difficult when Sansa stood so close to him. Her hair brushed his arm and he cursed the sleeves of his jacket. He wondered what her hair would feel like under his hands, and an obscene image started to creep into his mind. Sandor pushed it away with a deep breath. He realised that Sansa was looking at him as well, her gaze dancing up his arms.

“Right,” Sandor muttered. “Uh, what else?”

“Oh! Um, some sauce, maybe, or passata?”

“Sure,” Sandor muttered, finding himself weirdly short of breath. As Sansa darted off to find sauces, Sandor took the bags of potatoes to the shopping cart. His gaze landed on the small section of the aisle dedicated to oreintal cooking and without thinking about it, he grabbed a bottle of soy sauce, as well as what was labelled a ‘sushi mat’ and some ‘sushi rice’, though what made it special rice, he had no idea. Sansa returned with her arms full of sauce, as well as pasta.

“I figured we might need some pasta?”

“Probably,” Sandor said. He noticed that Sansa had chosen two different types- shells and spirals. A smile played on his lips.

“Is it okay?” Sansa had noticed his gaze.

“‘Course. All tastes the same.”

They continued walking.

“Don’t need this aisle,” Sandor muttered, skipping to the next. Sansa’s steps faltered beside his. “What is it?”

“We’re low on coffee, I think.”

“Are we?” He hadn’t noticed. “Okay.”

They turned down the aisle. Sandor watched as Sansa picked up the exact coffee he kept at the estate as if it was the most natural thing in the world. _Has she had nothing to do except memorise tiny details?_ There was nothing wrong with Sansa knowing what brand of coffee he preferred; it was the same crap he would offer a friend if they came over. But there was something strangely intimate about her casual use of the word _‘we’_ , and Sandor’s mind ran back to the look Ellie had cast their shared shopping cart. Suffocating panic began to creep up his chest, as if he would somehow ruin Sansa just by sharing small details of his life with her. But there she was, right in front of him, chatting about dinner as if he was anyone. 

“It’s not too late,” she was saying, “So there’s time to cook something like- oh, but I’m not sure-”

“Calm your chirping, little bird. Anything is fine. Wouldn’t mind some meat, though.”

Sansa turned away quickly, whirling down another aisle before Sandor could say anything else. _Did I upset her?_ When she returned with two packets of steak she offered him a small smile and Sandor noticed that her cheeks were tinged with pink. _She’s…. blushing? What did I say?_

“Is steak okay for dinner? I could cook potatoes as well?”

“Sounds good, little bird.”

She looked positively delighted at that and fell into step beside him as they meandered towards the checkout.

“Anything else we need?” Sandor asked.

Sansa hesitated. Sandor waited.

“I would quite like to make bread,” Sansa ventured. “And, um, we don’t have any herbs or spices…”

“Oh, I have some in my apartment. I’ll… bring them to the estate.”

_It’s fine. It’s temporary. It means nothing. It’ll be easy to move them all back._

“Right,” Sandor said. “Bread flour, right?”

Sansa nodded, disappearing down a different aisle.

Sandor ran through everything they had bought so far. _Clothes, that’s sorted. Fruit, vegetables, meat, carbs… wait, fruit._ Sandor left the cart and found his way back to the fruit aisle, grabbing a few boxes of strawberries and blueberries before realising he had no idea if Sansa would like those. _This is why I hate living with someone._ He skimmed the different fruits. _Apples are a safe bet._ He grabbed a bag, and then noticed the lemons. _She likes lemons, right? No, what kind of idiot just buys a lemon? She’s hardly going to eat it on its own, is she? Seven hells, what does it matter? She’ll find some use for it._ Sandor grabbed a few lemons and returned to the cart. He found Sansa waiting beside it, glancing into a row of freezers. Her fingers danced along the edge of the freezers, unperturbed by the cold. Sandor deposited the fruit into the shopping cart. The sound made Sansa startle and she shifted her gaze to him with a faint smile.

“Fruit,” Sandor said, by way of explaining his absence. “Think we’ve got all we need?”

“Yes, I think so.” Sansa glanced at the freezer.

“Anything else we _want?_ ”

Sansa gestured to the freezer.

“Have you ever tried any of these?”

Sandor walked over and looked inside. It looked like a range of frozen desserts, probably sickly sweet. _I should tell her I don’t like sweet food._ Instead he found himself asking, “Which is good?”

“Lemon’s the best,” Sansa said, with absolute conviction. “But the lime is really nice as well.”

Sandor looked over the desserts.

“I don’t see lemon.”

“I suppose it must be out of stock.”

“Hm.”

Sandor picked up the lime one, easy to spot in the gaudy green packaging. _Key lime pie. Authentic taste!_ boasted the packaging. _I doubt that,_ Sandor thought, chucking it in the cart. Sansa looked ridiculously content and Sandor panicked.

“Don’t like sweet things,” he muttered. Shock briefly crossed Sansa’s features, but then she resettled them back into happiness and Sandor frowned. _Fuck, now I made it sound like I’ve bought this stupid thing for her. Well, I have, but that’s not the bloody point._

Neither of them spoke again until they reached the checkout. Sandor reached for some plastic bags; they would certainly need a lot, from the looks of their nearly-overflowing shopping cart. Then he paused, noticing the fabric bags also for sale. He grabbed some of those instead, still avoiding Sansa’s gaze. When he finally glanced at her she had gotten out her card. Sandor shook his head.

“I’ll pay,” he said.

“I have money,” Sansa said. “I don’t want to be a burden.”

Sandor frowned.

“I’ll pay,” he said again.

He had taken enough from this girl already, so when she nodded, Sandor relaxed. _I might have taken her away from her family, and I might have taken her freedom but at least I don’t have to add money to that list._

“Thank you,” she said quietly, her hand brushing his arm.

“It’s nothing,” he said.

Sandor felt his phone vibrate as they were standing in line. He pulled it out and a glimpse of the screen told him it was Ellie. Sandor stole a glance at Sansa. She was arranging their items on the conveyor belt, saying something about “heavier first” and “meat together”, and other things Sandor had never bothered to consider. He opened the message.

**Ellie:** I love her (bet you do too)! Don’t you dare ‘forget’ to give me her number. x

Sandor sighed heavily, running a hand over his face. He suddenly felt exhausted, too tired to even scowl at Sansa's inquisitive glance.

“Ah,” Sandor said. “Let’s pack this up and get back.”

As he put the clothes into a bag, Sandor noticed a pair of women's grey leather gloves that _definitely_ hadn’t been there earlier. Sandor stared down at them for several moments before realising that Sansa was watching him. _I need to find something to wear that matches your eyes,_ she had said before. Sandor didn’t meet her gaze, just put the gloves in the bag and moved onto the next item. When he finally looked up, Sansa had a ghost of a smile on her face.


	12. Stranger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, hope you’re all good! This chapter is a little different since it doesn’t feature Sansa, but we do have the return of Brienne briefly and also an origin story for Stranger. You may be wondering why I crafted a strangely elaborate backstory for Stranger, and to be honest I didn’t mean to, but I fucking love dogs and couldn’t stop writing.
> 
> I say this every time but thank you so much for the response to the last chapter- the amount of hits and kudos (we hit 300, yay!) are just _wow_ , and your comments never fail to make me smile. The next chapter will be up in a couple of days as usual, and will be from Sansa’s POV. I may have to slow down updates since I’m moving out soon and haven’t started packing (oops) but for now we’re all good.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter, and I look forward to hearing your thoughts :)

## Chapter Twelve: Stranger

###  **Sandor**

Sandor was exhausted before the day began. The night before, Sansa had insisted on cooking, only requesting that he lay the table. Sandor couldn’t remember the last time he had done that, but given Sansa’s appraising glance, he hadn’t done too terribly, even finding some ridiculous paper napkins he thought she might like. They had eaten together in an almost companionable silence for half of the meal, but then they ate that strange key lime pie, and Sandor had sighed so heavily at it that Sansa had laughed, and before long the laughter blended into words and they were _talking._ It was nothing, really. Just little anecdotes from each of their lives- Sandor’s from the recent past and Sansa’s stretching all the back to her childhood. It seemed bloody perfect, especially considered to his shattered early years, and for that Sandor was glad. The girl might have grown up in the society, the same as he did, but she seemed to have avoided the worst of it. Well, until their marriage, but _that_ topic was thankfully skirted by the both of them. Just before they went to sleep, Sansa _almost_ brought it up.

“My parents--” She started. “At the w-”

“What is it?”

“My parents asked me to write to them,” Sansa said. "So I’ve written a few letters.”

“Alright.” _Why is she telling me this?_

"I was hoping you might post them, if it is not too much trouble.”

Sandor nodded.

“I haven’t sealed them yet,” Sansa said. Her tone held a suggestive note and for the life of him Sandor couldn’t figure out why. _Just tell it how it is, girl,_ he wanted to snarl.

“Why not?” He asked instead.

“In case you wanted to…..”

_In case I wanted to seal them?_ Understanding hit like a truck and Sandor would have laughed at the absurdity if not for the implications. _She thinks I want to read the letters, check that she hasn’t said anything dreadful about me, most likely._

“Seal them,” he said. “I’ll post them tomorrow.”

Sandor did post them, on the way to work, finding himself strangely exhausted by the evening before. He was so used to lounging on the sofa with Stranger by his side; he had never anticipated that getting to know someone would leave him feeling so drained. Not that he regretted the evening before. Sansa had appeared content, and that pie they ate wasn’t even too bad. It could have been wishful thinking, but Sandor fancied that Sansa had even been relaxed. 

The day was the same as any other, and Sandor tried to take Sansa’s lack of texts as a sign that nothing was wrong. Brienne had agreed to go with him to buy a phone after work, under the premise that Sandor was buying it for a friend. _As if Sansa could ever see me as that._ When they entered the shop they were immediately accosted by a shop assistant. _Barry,_ his name tag read.

“Can I help you?”

Sandor glared at him.

“No thank you, we’re just browsing,” Brienne said. She turned to Sandor. “Are you going to tell me why we’re buying a phone when yours is fully functional?”

“It’s not for me. I know someone who- she doesn’t have a phone.” He shrugged. “People need phones. I don’t know.”

Brienne gave him a knowing look entirely too reminiscent of the look Ellie had also offered in the supermarket. Sandor glowered at her, to no avail.

“What?” He muttered.

“No, no, you’re right.” Brienne smiled as she echoed his words. “‘People need phones’ to text each other. So that they don’t have to use Bronn’s.”

“No.” Sandor said. “No, not _me._ She doesn’t need to text me. Her sister- She- I just want my phone back, that's all.”

Brienne scoffed but thankfully left that point alone. For about a minute.

“Who is she?”

“No one.”

“She’s causing you a lot of stress to be no one. Is she the reason you took a few days holiday last week?”

Sandor just groaned. Barry, that useless buggering assistant, appeared by his side. _The only helpful thing he’ll ever do in his bloody life is interrupt that interrogation._ Sandor skulked off to the phone catalogue, leaving Brienne to handle the assistant. _Honor,_ Sandor read. _Honor is a subsidiary company of Huawei and honor products were previously branded under Huawei, but Honor is now considered a brand in its own right._ He skimmed the specs of a few of the phones. He knew enough to recognise that the camera was good, that it had alright storage, and that it was reasonably cheap. _That one will do,_ Sandor decided. He returned to Brienne, who was still trapped with the store assistant.

“It’s an offshoot of huawei, and really all of the concerns about spyware are completely unfounded. Most of the phones are very affordable and the camera-”

“Camera quality is great, yes, we know. Found the catalogue. Brienne, come and look at this.”

Shooting an apologetic look at the shop assistant, Brienne followed Sandor to the catalogue and inspected the phone he had chosen.

“They might have one we can try out in store,” she suggested. Sandor looked up at the phones lining the walls, his gaze falling on the brick phones. He sighed wistfully

“Don’t you dare,” Brienne muttered.

“I could let her keep my phone and-”

“You are _not_ regressing back to a flip phone. It took us a year to wean you onto a blackberry, and even longer to get you a real smartphone.”  
“I don’t know-”

Brienne tried another tactic.

“Doesn’t she deserve a new phone?”

Sandor clenched his jaw.

“Whatever,” Sandor muttered. “We’ll get whatever.”

_She doesn’t seem the type to complain about what I get her, but what if she hates it? Fuck, I know nothing about this kind of shit._

“It’s fine,” Brienne said. “We’ve a little time to go to the apartment too. Will you be staying there tonight?”

“No, I’ll be at the estate.”

“So I’ll be taking Stranger home with me again tonight?"

“Yeah. That okay?”

“It’s fine. But Sandor, are you going to tell me what’s been going on?”

Sandor feigned ignorance. _Please let her just drop the bloody subject._

“With what?”

“I know you’ve been coming by my apartment in the early mornings to see Stranger,” Brienne said. “I know that that’s the _only_ time you’ve spent with him; I know you’ve not seen Stranger for more than a few hours each day.”

“I know,” Sandor muttered, “It looks bad.”

“For a dog with attachment issues yes, it doesn’t look great.”

“He’s been okay? You said you’d say if he wasn’t.”

“He’s fine when he’s with Nettle.”

Sandor nodded.

“I’ve been run off my feet with two of them,” Brienne said. “Something’s happened with you, and I know it’s not Ellie, so it must have been the estate.”

Sandor winced.

“You’ve been doing it up?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Let’s get to the apartment and then talk about it.”

“Great,” Sandor muttered, unable to stop sarcasm from weighing down his voice. _Talking. My fucking favourite._

“Firstly,” Brienne said, “Let’s decide on a phone. What do you think she’ll like?”

_No idea._

“What do _you_ like?” He countered. Brienne raised her eyebrows. “Girls-” he tried to explain. He waited for Brienne’s inevitable outrage. Usually she would say something like: “You think women would need something different to men with their phones?” But instead she said nothing; she simply took a phone down from the wall.

“This one has good specs and isn’t ridiculously expensive. It’s the same make as the one you picked out in the catalogue, but an updated model. Plus, they have a phone case in stock that’s shockproof so it won’t break on the floorboards at the estate.”

_How does she know that Sansa is living at the estate?_

“Bronn,” Sandor scowled.

“So it _is_ the same person living with you,” Brienne said. “What’s her-”

“That phone looks good,” Sandor said, cutting her off. He strode away before Brienne could ask anything more. _I know I’ll have to tell her. Today, most likely. But seven hells, she’s not going to be happy._ Sandor ignored Brienne’s inquisitive gaze; _what’s the rush?_ she seemed to be asking. She continued watching him as he paid for the phone, and as they walked towards his apartment, and as Sandor got out his key. He unlocked his door slowly; Stranger had a habit of sleeping on the mat next to the door, so he knocked twice and listened closely. It wasn’t long before Sandor heard it: _huff huff,_ and like always, it took him back, the sound reminiscent of their first meeting two years prior.

**_~~~~~~~~~~two years prior~~~~~~~~~_ **

_At least there aren’t any useless bloody idiots around,_ Sandor thought. It was one blessing, at least. But Gods, he needed a drink, and he was closer than ever before- the closest he had been in one month of sobriety- to just snapping. _One drink,_ he thought, as he had so many times before. _One little drink won’t hurt anyone._ Except for the fact that last time it had- _he_ _had_ \- hurt someone. So instead of drinking, Sandor was going on a walk. His therapist had suggested getting himself far away from any ‘unhelpful opportunities’, which to Sandor, meant other people, alcohol, or the worst combination of all- other people _and_ alcohol. Now he was outside in only a t-shirt and jeans, the winter air sending a chill across his bare arms. It helped distract him from the thought of drinking, at least. _You need to get yourself out, away from the situation that is triggering you, until you don’t even remember what it was._ Sandor thought that alcohol was far faster at helping him forget, but the Elder Brother had looked less than impressed at that point. Sandor had snarled at the Elder Brother that the feeling- the _need_ to drink- wasn’t just going to go away, but he still took his advice, and by the time he made it from the South side to North side of the park near his apartment he _did_ feel a lot calmer, not that he would be admitting it in his next therapy session.

Sandor was near the Northern gate when he heard the sound. There was often the scrabbling of small animals: the chirping of birds and little squeaks from squirrels. Sandor initially paid it no mind, but then he heard it again: _huff huff._ It sounded like _breathing,_ and he whirled around, brow furrowed, evaluating the area. No one was around.

In the distance Sandor could see the Northern gate and a smattering of trees to his left. Behind him, the hill he had walked over. To his right was a barbed wire fence separating the public park from the fields of privately owned horses. The sound couldn’t have come from the trees- they were too far away, and it couldn’t have come from anywhere else, since Sandor could see far in all other directions. He let his eyes flicker shut for a moment and a different sound caught his attention- a faint whine. This time, he realised it was coming from ahead of him, to the right. But the horses had been taken in for the day, what with the rapidly approaching winter chill, and he couldn’t see anything. Still Sandor scanned the ground, his gaze trailing the long grass until something caught his eye. It looked like nothing more than a scrap of material. He crouched down to pick it up. As his fingers grazed the fabric, he glanced ahead and realised where it had come from. Behind a fence post, wrapped in the barbed wire of the fence, was an old burlap sack, little more than shreds of fabric. And next to it were three black puppies.

At least Sandor thought they were puppies, judging by their oversized paws and high-pitched whining. It was hard to tell, though, since they were huge. There was something especially painful about their size; the huge paws that they ought to grow into made them stumble as they tried to move. It would have been endearing, if not for the wire that dug into them each time they struggled. Somehow they had escaped the sack, only to be caught by the sharp barbs of the fence. It was the middle pup that worried Sandor the most. He was the biggest, and the one that Sandor had heard barking- if it could even be considered barking. _Huff huff,_ the dog said. It was clear he was trying his best, wide eyes holding Sandor’s, but even through the mud on the pup’s coat Sandor could see telltale streaks of red and his tail wasn’t wagging at all. The other two pups wriggled and whined, but the third just watched Sandor, letting out those pitiful sounds every few moments. Sandor took out his phone and called Brienne.

“I need you to find the emergency RSPCA number. Tell them I found three puppies stuck in a barbed wire fence. I’m at the North end of Elm Park.”

He waited for only a fraction of a second, just long enough to hear Brienne say _‘got it’_ , before he snapped his flip phone shut. Then he sat down on the grass and began to edge towards the puppies.

“No, sir, we don’t know what will happen to them. They will likely be re-homed. Well, it’s not often that someone comes in looking for _three_ puppies so yes, they may be separated. Like I said, I don’t know the details.”

“No, we do _not_ need help tracking down whoever did that. I assure you that the police will take of that if it is necessary.”

“No, we can’t keep you updated about what happens to them.”

“No, we don’t have any puppies here that match the description.”

“No, the only litter we had recently was cats.”

And then finally, _finally,_ a week later, the words spoken over the phone were the ones Sandor had been waiting for.

“Yes, three puppies, quite big, found caught in a fence.”

“One male? Two females?”

“That’s right.”

“Black?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“We close in ten-”

He had already snapped his phone shut.

“I’m the one that found them,” Sandor explained upon reaching the animal shelter. “Did you find out who dumped them?”

“It’s possible that it was illegal breeders. It’s an unusual mix. They seem to have some German shepherd in them, perhaps some mastiff too. Whatever they are, they were likely an unwanted litter. They’re all healthy- or were, when they were abandoned- so the fact that they were just dumped suggests it was an unplanned litter.”

Usually Sandor’s thoughts would be on vengeance, on finding the cunts that dared to think they could get away with this, but for once he hadn’t cared. Oh, he was certainly angry. But somehow fear was stronger, and instead of fueling his anger, it transcended it, turning into something…. Something that he didn’t recognise.

“What about the pups?” Sandor found himself asking. “What’s the outlook?”

“They’ll live. Not much permanent damage. Some scarring-” The vet hesitated, as did everyone- Sandor was just surprised that he managed to say the word, his gaze skipping across to Sandor’s left side only briefly. “But they can live with scarring. It’s the rest that’s the issue. Emotional damage. We’re looking at months of careful training in a sensitive, quiet home. Unfortunately most people with that kind of time are the elderly, and these dogs are going to need exercise.”

Sandor tried not to reflect on the fact that his life seemed to mirror that of an old man though he was only in his mid twenties.

“Three dogs.”

“Yes, three dogs. So we can add attachment issues to the list.” The woman ran a hand through her hair with a sigh. “It’s very unlikely that we’ll find someone who can take all three. They would need money, time and patience. Not to mention the garden space.”

Sandor’s heart sank. He could lower his hours perhaps, and he had the patience- he had always had a soft spot for animals. But the garden space…. He lived in an apartment, and the money…. There was a chance that Ellie could help out, but she had just moved to a new house, so-- _a new house. A new house, with a garden._

“My sister,” Sandor said. “She’s got a garden, she works from home.”

“She’s welcome to drop by anytime and-”

“She’s got two young sons; do you think the pups would be okay?”

“If she can ensure the boys aren’t physical with the pups I see no reason why not. Perhaps she might like to arrange a--”

Sandor nodded. He got out his phone, calling her immediately. _I can go over every evening, sleep over on the days when I don't have to be at work first thing. We can start all pups at her house and then we can gradually get them adjusted to being apart, and-_

“Sands?”

“Ellie, are you doing anything? If I give you an address can you get there?”

“Are you alright? Are you- have you been-”

_Are you_ _drunk_ _; have you been_ _drinking_ _?_ The word hung heavy between them, unspoken.

“I’m fine. And no, I’m not. I haven’t. In a month.”

“That’s good. Really good.”

“Whatever,” Sandor muttered. “Look, there are these pups at the shelter, and I-” Sandor remembered that the volunteer was still there, and he lowered his voice, swinging back to the cages as he spoke. “I found these three pups, El, you remember-”

“In the field. You found them again?”

“El, we’ve got to take them.”

There was a long pause.

“You said there were three. What would we do with three dogs, Sandor? You said they were big-”

“One each. And one for Brienne. We’d raise them together, then slowly get them used to being apart.”

“Ah.”

Usually her diminished response would panic Sandor, but he knew it meant that she was deep in thought.

“You’ve got to come down and see them,” Sandor pressed her.

“What time does the shelter close?”

Sandor knew that he had won. There was no way Ellie could see those pups and not want one.

“I’ll text you the address.”

He called Brienne after that, and though she told him he was a presumptuous fool, she agreed that she would come over as well.

“When I told you I wanted a dog this was not what I had in mind,” she said. “Does she have a name?”

“We can rename them,” Sandor assured her. The pre-picked names, though not a priority, were utterly ridiculous. Brienne’s pup had been named Nettle, Ellie’s Hero, and Sandor’s Racer.

When the girls arrived, they were let into the cage with the pups. Sandor stayed outside, seeing as his pup was asleep, looking content for once. Half an hour of coaxing earned an approach from both Nettle and Hero, much to the delight of Brienne and Ellie.

“Hello Nettle,” Brienne said. “Gosh, aren’t they wonderful? Nettle, Hero, and Racer.”

“You can’t possibly keep those names,” Sandor protested. “Mine’s not staying Racer for long.”

“I rather like the name Nettle, actually,” Brienne said.

Sandor snorted, all ready for a retort about how ominous it was to name a pup after the plant growing at the site it was abandoned, but a sound disturbed him. _Huff, huff. Clang clang clang clang clang--_ Sandor looked down. His pup had woken up and made his way to the side of the cage. His tail moved wildly from side to side, the clang against the metal overpowering his hushed bark. The commotion was riling up the other pups and they turned towards Sandor. Hero barked loud enough to draw Nettle away from Brienne and then everyone was watching Sandor, forcing him to move. He crouched down slowly, aware that any sudden movement could spook his pup.

“Hello Stranger,” Sandor said quietly, revealing his chosen name. He ignored Brienne’s gasp of horror, glancing up only briefly to meet his sister’s feral grin. “Yes, hello.”

A wet nose pressed through the wire of the cage. _Huff, huff._

“Why doesn’t he bark?” Sandor asked. “That sound he makes….”

“The injuries he suffered have done damage to his throat,” the vet said.

“What kind of damage?” Sandor did his best to keep his voice level for Stranger’s sake.

“Like a botched debarking operation,” the vet told him. “Imagine having your vocal chords sliced.”

“Can he still breathe?”

“Yes, his respiratory system is fine.”

“It’s just the barking.”

“Or lack thereof.”

_Huff huff,_ Stranger said, eyeing the vet with caution.

“Don’t think he likes you,” Sandor muttered.

“Probably remembers me from the surgeries,” the vet said with a chuckle. “I get that often.”

It wasn’t that. _Don’t think he likes you_ gradually bled into _he doesn’t like people._ Stranger was…. Well, he was strange. He would bound up to dogs at the park only to turn tail and run at the sight of their owners. Sandor discovered that there were two ways to befriend him. The first was instantaneous and often accidental, like with Sandor and that one old lady at the park. The second method required effort, and it was through many painful days that Brienne and Ellie gradually gained his trust.

It would be hard work; Sandor wasn’t a fool, he knew that. But he also knew that it would pay off.

**~~~~~~~~~end of flashback~~~~~~~~~**

Sandor gave Stranger a quick pat and made his way through to the kitchen. The dog followed as close as his shadow.

“Coffee?” Sandor asked, hoping to prolong their inevitable conversation.

“Decaf?”

Brienne’s wry tone told Sandor that she already knew he didn’t have any so he just shrugged.

“I’ll have tea.” She barely paused to breathe before continuing. “So, about Stranger. He misses you, as you can tell.”

A glance at Stranger showed Sandor that Brienne was right; Stranger was shoving his nose into Sandor’s hand with a frantic _huff huff huff_ to try to earn himself another pat.

“You know that he riles up Nettle.”

“No he doesn’t,” Sandor grumbled, bending down to give Stranger a pat. “Stranger says he’s been on his best behaviour with you,” he said. It wasn’t a lie; the dog was beaming, tongue lolling out of his mouth and tail wagging at lightning speed.

“That dog is as ridiculous as you are.”

Sandor had no rebuttal for that; Brienne was right. He gave Stranger a final pat before straightening up and taking out his wallet.

“How much do I owe you?”

“Don’t you dare,” Brienne muttered. “You can just owe me one.”

“That’s even worse,” Sandor grumbled.

“No less than you deserve. Now, are you going to tell me what’s been going on?”

“It’s….. difficult.”

“It’s the girl, isn’t it?”

“Sansa.”

Brienne nodded.

“You’re not going to like this,” Sandor said, and that was all the warning he gave before telling her everything, in the same halting manner as he had told the Elder Brother. He kept it a little briefer than he could have after watching how even the words _arranged marriage_ made Brienne wince.

“Wow,” Brienne said, when he was finished. “That’s…. wow.”

“I don’t want to overwhelm her,” Sandor said. “She has a dog. I was thinking….” He hesitated. “Doesn’t matter. Can you look after Stranger for a while longer? A few more days?”

“Of course, that’s fine.”

There was a pause. Sandor relented. Brienne had been entirely too calm about the situation.

“What’s the catch?”

“You know what you should do,” she said. Sandor was already shaking his head. “This can be in exchange for looking after Stranger. You won’t owe me one.”

There was another pause.

“What exactly do you want?” Sandor finally ground out.

“You’ve got to tell her your real intentions, or as close as you can.”

“You want me to tell this girl that I want to divorce her. Brienne, all she’s been taught- she expected- she probably thinks we’ll have kids or some shit.”

Brienne’s brow creased.

“You didn’t-”

“No, I didn’t fucking rape her.” Sandor looked away. “I can’t tell her yet.”

“You need to.”

“No-”

“Think about it from her point of view. Nothing has gone how she’s expected it to, and _yes,_ that’s in a good way _so far,_ but the uncertainty must be eating her up. At least give her a choice of an annulment, and then propose your strange friendship idea.”

“I don’t even know how,” Sandor admitted.

“Whenever is natural,” Brienne suggested. “Keep her calm. It sounds like she’s on edge.”

“ _You_ could talk to her.” Sandor despised himself for the note of desperation that crept into his voice.

“If she needs a friend, of course. But you’re doing this yourself.”

Brienne’s voice betrayed absolute finality. Sandor sighed.

“I think she knows I’m not going to rape her, but she doesn’t have any concept of…. consent, or-”

“She doesn’t have a concept of consent so your solution is to keep her in the dark? I understand it’s a difficult conversation to have, Sandor, but you need to.”

“I know.”

“Soon.”

“Seven hells, Brienne.”

“Two days.”

_“Two days?”_

“A week is long enough- too long- for a sham marriage.”

_She’s not wrong._

“Fine.”

“And for the love of the gods,” Brienne said, “Find her something to _do_ all day.”


	13. Laying foundations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone. Somehow we’ve had 800+ hits just in the last two days. I’ve no idea how that happened but I’m certainly not complaining! Thank you so so much for the incredible response, it means a lot. :)
> 
> This chapter is the long overdue conversation, finally happening due to Brienne’s encouragement last chapter. It’s a little shorter than my usual chapters- it’s mainly conversation and I felt it didn’t really need to be longer. (For some reason, posting Chapter 13 on the 13th is unbelievably satisfying to me.) The next chapter will be longer and from Sandor’s POV (and probably quite fluffy).
> 
> I have a few gaps in my plan for interactions between these two, so do let me know if there’s anything in particular you would like to see. I hope you like this chapter, and I’m excited to hear what you think. :)

## Chapter Thirteen: Laying foundations 

###  **Sansa**

Sandor glanced up at Sansa for what must have been the hundredth time that day- _and it is still only the morning-_ and heaved a heavy sigh. Sansa pretended not to notice. Sandor had been glancing up at her every few seconds, it seemed, with a look in his eyes that she could not identify. Sansa tried not to squirm under his disquieting gaze, but found it near impossible _. It’s Saturday, and he said he would not be working today. Is he to watch me for the entire day? I will surely lose my mind._ The evening before had been pleasant, with their usual near-routine of eating dinner together whilst talking. But now…… There was no way to understand what plagued him, no way except for turning around and looking at him properly. _Then that is what I shall do._ Sansa set down her embroidery, moving so that she sat on the edge of the bed, her legs brushing the floor, her fingers fisted in the duvet. 

“Is there something I might help you with?” She asked. “Something you wish to discuss?”

Sansa thought she heard the words _‘nearly one bloody week’_ escape from Sandor but did not have time to mull it over before he spoke properly to her.

“Yes,” he said, his voice quieter than usual. “There is something we should talk about.”

Sansa nodded; _now is a chance to aid my Lord husband_.

“How does _the society_ respond to divorce?”

“It is not done, my Lord, except in very rare circumstances” Sansa answered. She paused, realising that his title had escaped her lips, but it seemed also to escape his notice; his lips were set in a grim line, though he nodded for her to continue. “There is only annulment, and that is most often undertaken when the marriage is not consu--”

Her face fell as understanding dawned; she knew her mouth fell open, and failed to stop it, and could not bring herself to care. A chill silenced her, stealing the colour from her cheeks and the air from her stomach. _There are already vile rumours flying about the night of the ball, about what Joffrey did, and they aren’t even true, not at all! But were I_ _married_ _; even with an annulment, I’ll be as good as ruined. They’ll say I’ve had two men and displeased them both. I cannot even dispute that I have displeased my husband. And more importantly, without the bride price, we’ll all be as good as nothing, and why? I’ve failed, so easily, so completely, so early! Oh, how ashamed my mother will be! I failed not only on our wedding night, but all five afterwards. And I was foolish enough to believe that my husband might be as happy as I am, content with our strange near-friendship. Of course not! I should have tried harder, and now it's too late._ Another dreadful thought struck Sansa. _Oh gods, what if the annulment is already through, and he's only informing me?_ Misery clogged up her throat and sent tears to her eyes.

"Oh," she said.

Sandor moved to sit beside her, and she tried not to tense, offering him a tremulous smile.

"I won't touch you, little bird. I promised, didn't I?"

_You also made certain promises at our wedding, but it didn’t take you long to- no, no, this isn’t fair. It’s not his fault I’m defective._ Besides, her husband’s voice was so soft that it bordered on silent, and the fact that Sandor was putting so much effort into keeping her calm, as if his words weren’t destroying her, _me, the wife he cannot bring himself to desire-_ overwhelmed her. He was trying so hard to be good to her now, couldn’t he try to desire her? It had been a week- no, not even that. Six days. There must have been something he had liked, before they married, or else why would he have chosen her? What had put him off so quickly that he believed the marriage could not be salvaged? Was it her voice? She could change that. Her manner? She could change that, too, if only he would _tell_ her what she was doing wrong. But first, she needed to compose herself.

“My Lord, might I-”

“Not a Lord,” he murmured, his voice soft even in its correction.

Sansa nodded.

“I’m sorry. Might I compose myself- for a moment-”

She was already standing as she spoke, and did not expect her husband’s refusal, a hardness to her voice that made her flinch.

“No, Sansa, sit down.”

The air deserted her lungs again and Sansa squeezed her eyes shut as the room tilted a little.

“Please,” she said.

Sandor’s phone rang, and he swore viciously, standing up.

“Shit, I’ve got to take this.”

He moved past her into the hallway.

“What’re you bloody disturbing me for?” He snarled into the phone.

Sansa remained frozen for an instant before breaking down. She sank back onto the bed with her head in her hands, sobbing. Sandor would probably hear her, but what did that matter? Her husband didn’t desire her. Their marriage was to be annulled. She had even lied to her parents about it. _I told my parents all was well only yesterday in my letters._ Sansa could think of no worse humiliation. _Let him hear me cry,_ she thought bitterly. _Let him know what he has done- nothing to ruin me physically, yet it has ruined me all the same._

“Little bird……” Sandor had returned, his hands in his pockets, standing opposite her.

Sansa wept harder at the nickname.

“No,” she said, almost a wail. “Please-” She made to stand again, but her shaking legs sent her straight down to the floor. Head bowed, shoulders shaking, Sansa knelt in front of her husband, never before feeling so miserable. Strong arms encircled her as Sandor mirrored her position. He drew her legs atop his own, so that Sansa was kneeling on his thighs, her head against his neck, his arms holding her close. She could feel the heat of his body, the hard muscle of his chest as she balled his shirt in her hands. Several long minutes passed like that, Sandor’s hands feather-light as they stroked her back, her neck, the curve of her head. He took her hair in his hands and sighed as she buried her face in his neck, her tears wetting the scar tissue there. _I had not noticed how far his scars extended._ When her tears abated, Sansa was left only with exhaustion, shame, and bitterness. _How ironic that I might seek comfort from the source of my distress._

A hysterical laugh fought its way out of Sansa’s lips.

“Joffrey was wrong,” she said, her voice muffled by Sandor’s chest.

“Hm?” He loosed his grip but Sansa leaned into him and he tightened the embrace once more. Sansa lifted her face, leaning only her chin on Sandor’s chest and looking up at his face.

“He said… he said… that you would….” Sansa ducked her head again, her voice low and trembling, words rushing out in one blurred sentence. “He said that you would… fuck me so hard you’d tear me apart.”

“He said I’d-- when-”

“He spoke to me at the wedding reception. But he was wrong,” she said, another laugh- or sob- escaping her lips.

“I would never.”

“I know,” Sansa whispered. “You don’t desire me.”

“You think _that’s_ why I- _fuck,_ Sansa, you’re near a decade younger than me; you’re terrified of my touch; you don’t even know me.”

“Isn’t that how most marriages start? I- I am sorry for- but-” Sansa took a deep breath. “It is true that I did fear your touch, but now it does not scare me. I would be alright, I’m sure, if you wanted-” It wasn’t quite true; the idea of being with him in that manner still terrified her, but being held like this was comforting, so perhaps…. _._

“Sansa….”

“I would try my best-”

“Sansa…..” His voice was a warning, and Sansa remembered that he did not want her.

“I am sorry,” she said. “I was hoping we could build something, but-” 

Sansa hesitated; _I can be brave, and I can be bold. If he is to be rid of me anyway, I may as well try._

“Do you think that with time you might be able to desire me?” Sansa asked.

“Is it just the money?” Sandor countered her question with another. “The bride price, is that what this is about?”

Sansa shook her head.

“My reputation,” she mumbled. “That I’d be ruined, and I would remarry anyone, for any price.”

Sandor made a _hmm,_ sound in his throat, making his chest vibrate.

“Better me than Ramsay,” Sandor said.

Sansa shivered against him.

_"Gods, yes,_ ” she said. Sandor stiffered and when she glanced up he had a queer expression on his face, but recovered quickly.

“You’d rather stay married, I take it?”

“Yes.”

There was a pause.

“Open marriage,” her husband said, and it was obvious this was something he had mulled over before. “We remain…. married, though only in name, and we pretend to your family, to the society, that all is ordinary.” Then his voice wavered with uncertainty. “We could…. try to get to know each other, but only if you’d like.”

“That’s what _open marriage_ is?”

“Yes…. well, no. The couple is…. involved with others, separately or together.”

_"Oh,"_ Sansa said. _He would remain married to me to protect my reputation, and would be rid of his…. needs…. with other women. That is kind of him._ “I see.”

“I don’t think you do. I meant that you might want that freedom-”

Sansa was shaking her head before he finished.

“No,” she said. “Not me.”

“Ah, Sansa.” Sandor sighed. “How you’ve been raised, it’s-”

“Different to most, I know. Arya has spoken of this before, of dating…. and such.”

“So you could-”

“I would not want to date anyone else,” Sansa said. Of that much, she was certain. _It is not that I have had no choice; I could have been like Arya, after all. I could have snuck out each evening, could have given into her pestering._

“Well you wouldn’t want to date me either,” Sandor pointed out.

_If that is how relationships operate for him, we could try that. We could date._ Sansa opened her mouth but Sandor was still speaking.

“It doesn’t make a difference,” he muttered, “But what you said earlier- I _do_ desire you.”

“Doesn’t make a difference?” A grin overtook Sansa’s face, though confusion still weighed heavily in her chest. “That makes all the difference in the world.

Sandor grimaced.

“No,” he said. “I’m not one of those buggering Lords, I’m not a rapist, I’m not my-- It’s not mutual, so I won’t.”

“You would only have me if I….? You want me to- before we- you want me to want you?”

“And it won’t happen,” he said, with absolute certainty.

“But-”

“It’s _fine,_ Sansa, so don’t lie. I’m fine with this marriage- with nothing, or perhaps friendship with time.”

Sansa looked up at him, but he refused to meet her gaze.

“I know that with time you’ll see an annulment is not a terrible idea,” Sandor continued, “But we can remain as we are until then. I want you to feel safe. How does that sound?”

“That sounds….” _Like a start. Like something to build upon. He desires me!_ “I would like to get to know you,” she said.

His eyes found hers, a slight frown gracing his features. Emboldened, Sansa continued.

“I understand you do not believe me, but with time, I am sure- or I- I think there is a chance I may grow to like you… in such a manner that a wife should lo-- know her husband.”

“Don’t say such things-”

“I mean it,” Sansa said, interrupting him. Her heart was racing, tears drying on her cheeks. “If it pleases you, I would- I would-”

“Get to know me? In what manner? Almost…” Sandor looked at her as if dazed, equal parts in awe and skeptical. He spoke slowly, disbelief clouding his tone. “What do you mean?”

Sansa opened her mouth and snapped it shut again before she said something she would regret later. _This is an opportunity I never considered, and one I must take time to consider, if he will allow me time._

“Sandor.” She said the word slowly, his name falling heavy and unfamiliar still. _Could we date? I would need to confide in Arya perhaps, but I doubt that she would understand. I don’t understand this myself. He believes I could not desire him, yet he is willing to date?_

“Friends?” Sandor offered, when Sansa didn’t speak again.

_That sounds like it could lead to something._

“Friends,” she echoed.

Sandor looked into her eyes for a long time, and Sansa met his gaze, watching as the unflinching grey gave way, softening like satin. Finally Sandor stood, carefully raising Sansa back to standing as he did so.

“Little bird,” he said, regret heavy in his voice, “I’ve got to go to work. Sorry. Something’s come up.”

“Might I make dinner for us later?”

“You don’t have to do that each day.”

“I would like to, if it pleases you,” Sansa said, raising her hand to rest it on his arm. “We could talk as we eat.”

Sandor hesitated.

“If you would like to,” he finally conceded. “I'll be back just before sunset, seven o’clock perhaps.”

Sansa nodded.

“Have a good day,” she said.

Realising she still had a hold of his arm, she squeezed it gently before letting go. Sandor’s gaze followed, his eyes trained on his arm as if Sansa had branded him.

“Text me if you need anything,” he said, by way of goodbye.

Then he was gone, leaving Sansa alone. She sank down on the bed, weary from crying, her heart beating like a full flock of birds had made a nest there.

“He desires me,” she whispered. And then, giddy with excitement, “And I may one day desire him.”


	14. Counting Mornings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, this is a long-ish chapter from Sandor's POV. It's quite busy and skips through a couple days, which I'm not used to, so I'm sorry about the slight jumpy-ness. Thank you for the response to the last chapter- gods, I find myself grinning in public far too often nowadays (though I suppose no one knows because of the mask)- 350 kudos and a lot of wonderful comments.... wow. Thank you :)
> 
> I hope you're all doing well and that you enjoy this chapter. The next one will have a bit of a slower feel to it again and will be from Sansa's POV. Let me know what you think!

## Chapter Fourteen: Counting Mornings

###  **Sandor**

Sandor woke to a dozen notifications on his phone- several bombardments from Tormund about covering additional shifts, and a little congratulatory gif from the Elder Brother to say well done on surviving a week of marriage.

**EB:** on a more serious note, I’ve passed Sansa's number onto a great female therapist.

**Sandor:** Thanks for letting me know. I owe you one.

**EB:** Just tell me when I might meet her.

Sandor ignored that- _at this rate we’ll have a bloody party: the Elder Brother, Ellie, Brienne, and me and Sansa_ . He shook his head at the thought; _what a mess._ It had been a relief when the Elder Brother told him Sansa had contacted him about therapy. Sansa hadn’t told Sandor about it, and he wasn’t sure what to do about that- _she knows I had therapy, and I’m the one who encouraged her, so why hasn’t she told me?_ But he decided not to press the issue- it wasn’t even an issue, really, and if Sansa wanted it private, it was private. Easy.

Sandor put his phone down, ignoring Tormund’s messages. It was too early to worry about work, _especially_ on his day off. _Yesterday ought to have been a day off too,_ Sandor remembered, but Tormund had called him with an apparent “emergency”. It had turned out to be little more than wanting help with some useless forms, something to do with finance and health and safety and other things that absolutely did not warrant an emergency phone call. It was a test, clearly, and if he confronted the other man, Sandor knew that he would admit to it. The problem was that he was most certainly testing him in preparation for a promotion, and that was something that Sandor did _not_ want. Not only did he not need the additional money, but it would mean longer hours, and more of a say in financial decisions. _If I was going to be involved in those decisions, I would want it with my own company. Mine._ But having Sansa thrown into his life- or rather, pulling her into it from her own- was enough of a change. _I ought to focus on this ridiculous friendship first,_ he decided.

A glance at Sansa told Sandor that she was still asleep. _I was an utter fool to think that those clothes would make me any less attracted to her._ She was wearing the pajamas they had bought together, the ones that weren’t _satin fucking nightdresses,_ and she still looked wonderful. One of her legs was stretched out far enough across the bed that it was grazing Sandor’s leg, just below the knee. Sansa was lying on her front, half her face visible and relaxed in unconsciousness. The duvet had slid down during the night so that it only clung to the curve of her hip and her legs. Sandor traced it with his eyes, the line where the smooth dip of her back melted into the fabric. _She’s asleep,_ he remembered. _And I’m watching her. Seven hells, stop being predatory. She’s asleep. Imagine if she wakes up and sees you doing this. Watching her. She’s not yours to look at._

Sandor leant over, his hand tracing Sansa’s back for an instant as he fumbled for the duvet, his eyes trained on her face. In leaning forward, he accidentally pushed her foot further up his leg and his breath caught in his throat. _Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck,_ his mind screamed, as he carefully took hold of her ankle and moved her leg back down and away from him. Too late, of course. Her leg had moved from his calf to his thigh, and his leg was practically _tingling,_ a feeling that was rapidly extending upwards. On the upside, Sansa looked entirely calm in sleep, a kind of contentment on her features that Sandor had not yet seen when she was conscious. _One day,_ he vowed, _she will feel comfortable around me, comfortable enough that she will be just as relaxed when she’s awake._ Acutely aware of the distance- or lack thereof- between them, Sandor leaned backwards. He finished tugging the duvet up until it covered Sansa’s shoulders, as much to keep her warm as to cover her body and stop his thoughts. His hard-on failed to be calmed so easily so Sandor slunk out of bed, pausing only to pull some clothes from the wardrobe before escaping to the bathroom.

When Sandor left the bathroom he found Sansa still in bed and began to feel the weight of guilt. _Still asleep. She must be tired from all that I put her through yesterday. Gods, I should have prepared for that conversation._ He could still remember the unmistakable sound of her sobbing from the bedroom, and the utter despair and fear and confusion that accompanied his surprise. _Shit, I handled that terribly, and she seemed alright by the end of it but how am I to know? I just hope we’ve come to an understanding, for now. Anything to make her feel safer._ A loud knock echoed from the front door shook him from his thoughts and Sandor strode over to the door, wrenching it open. A postman stood outside.

“Got your post, oh-”

The man’s eyes widened as he took in Sandor’s form: huge, scarred, and angry.

“Do you know how early it is? People are sleeping.”

The postman gave Sandor’s clothes a pointed look, but held his tongue.

“Not me,” Sandor snapped. “Give it here, then. What’re you waiting for?”

The postman thrust the letters forwards and made a hasty retreat. Sandor returned inside, resisting the urge to slam the door- for Sansa’s sake- and thumbed through the post. There were four letters for Sansa and several bills for Sandor, though they were still addressed to his brother. He threw them on the kitchen surface and put the kettle on. Through the bedroom door, he could see a slight lump in the bed that told him Sansa hadn’t woken up.

_I had better make breakfast,_ Sandor thought, with another stolen glance at Sansa. _For the both of us._ He was almost relaxed, frying the bread, his mind blessedly free from intrusive thoughts. _Milk, sugar, eggs. Oil, butter._ It wasn’t until he reached for the cinnamon that Sandor frowned. He had forgotten about the rows of spices, brought from his apartment, and it made the kitchen kook homey, with shelves of herbs and spices and pans in the cupboards. Sandor tried not to think about it for too long. Though there was certainly more empty space than full…but, well, it looked like their kitchen might belong to a couple that downsized for their first house together, or a couple that bought just enough for themselves, or something equally sickening, something that Sandor had never dreamed of because it wasn’t meant for someone like him. He carefully flipped over the toast and made Sansa her tea- two milks, no sugar, as well as his black coffee.

The creak of a floorboard had him turning and coming face to face with Sansa, standing by the bedroom door. _She’s watching me. Or she was._ Sansa has been leaning against the doorframe but straightened up when his eyes landed on her, her cheeks were rapidly turning pink with embarrassment.

“Hungry? There’s toast if you want, and tea.”

“Oh, thank you.” Her voice was quiet but held a degree of certainty that alleviated Sandor’s guilt a little. “How can I help?”

“It’s all done; no need.”

Sansa nodded, and took a step backwards.

“I’ll go and freshen up, and-”

“Sansa, it’s fine, I don’t care.” Sandor paused. “Do what you want.”

Sansa disappeared into the bedroom and Sandor placed the toast on two plates, sliding one across the kitchen island. _Have I ruined everything already?_ Apparently not, since Sansa reappeared quickly in a blue dressing gown and made her way towards him. She placed her hands on the kitchen island and took a deep breath, setting down her phone. Almost immediately, it began to vibrate with an incoming call.

“Sorry,” she said. “I made the mistake of telling Arya that I have a phone now.”

“Going to pick up?”

“I suppose I ought to.” She eyed the phone with trepidation, her brow creasing, before finally picking it up. “Yes, Arya, hello. I’m fine. Yes, I know. No, h-” She stole a glance at Sandor. _I shouldn’t just be watching her like some creep._ With his post under one arm, Sandor took his breakfast to the table.

“No. Yes. I’ll not discuss that. _Arya,_ I’m fine. My most significant problem at the moment is you. We’re to eat now.”

Sansa stole a glance at Sandor; he did his best to keep his face entirely neutral, staring at the envelope in his hand. _Gregor Clegane. Let’s see what overdue bills this fucker’s left me._

“No, I didn’t. Yes. He did.” She paused. “I know.” There was a smile in her voice now. “Yes, that sounds sensible. Uncharacteristically sensible. Wait- what _are_ you doing up so early, anyway? No, Arya--”

Sandor looked up.

“She hung up on you?”

“Apparently so.”

“You’ve got post,” Sandor said, nodding at the pile of letters.

“Oh,” Sansa said, her fingers creeping across the countertop. “Thank you.” She grabbed the letters in one hand and balanced her plate on top, and then took her tea and made her way towards the table, settling down opposite Sandor. _Does she realise she could have eaten at the kitchen island, further away from me?_ He did his best not to look at her, but from the corner of his vision he could see that she was on her phone.

“Texting Arya?”

Sansa nodded.

“Is her number still in my phone?”

“No, I deleted it.”

“Can I have it?”

She hesitated, avoiding his gaze.

“What for?” Sansa asked, an unnatural neutrality forced into her tone.

Sandor could have lied easily. _I ought to get to know your family,_ he could say, _seeing as we’re married._ Sansa’s face would light up at that, excited at his interest to get to know her relatives. He would obtain Arya’s number through a lie, and Sansa’s smile through deceit. Sandor was many things, but not a liar. Instead he simply shrugged, and the smile that Sansa offered him was empty and tainted with nerves.

“Of course,” Sansa said, her eyes quickly darting back to the phone. “I’ll send it to you- oh. I, um, I-”

Sandor frowned.

“Spit it out, girl, what is it?”

“I don’t have your number,” Sansa mumbled.

“You do. I… I put it into your phone.”

“Oh!” Sansa looked down.

Sandor’s phone vibrated in his pocket and he fished it out with a scowl- _what does Bronn want now? I swear, if it’s Tormund-_ only to be interrupted by a giggle.

“It’s only me,” Sansa said, by way of explanation.

“Huh?” Sandor’s head had gone all fuzzy, the sound of her little delicate laugh reverberating around his skull.

“The phone. The text- it’s just Arya’s number.”

“Ah. Right. Great.” He went to turn away, but then she spoke again.

“Thank you,” Sansa said. Sandor would have scoffed; he would have mocked her empty courtesies, but somehow she had injected warmth into her tone, and _when did her hand move to my arm?_ Sandor found himself desperate to crush her against his chest. If it wasn’t for the table between them, he might have done.

“For the phone,” Sansa said. “And for everything.”

_Gods, the Elder Brother was right._ It seemed he was not quite too far gone for new emotions. Sandor nodded.

“We’ll get you a job, next,” he said, only half joking. His weak attempt to break the tension worked, and Sansa’s eyes widened.

“A _job_?”

Sandor chuckled at her bewildered expression and shook his head.

“Where would I work?” Sansa asked.

“Nowhere if you don’t want to.”

“It… would be nice to have something to do during the day, so yes, I would have a job, if it pleases you.”

Sandor snorted.

“So formal, aren’t you?” He didn’t wait for her response. “A job, then. You’ll need a CV. Do you have any experience?”

“I took my exams a year ago and I’ve done tutoring for children since then.”

“You like kids, then?” Sandor didn’t realise the implications of his words until Sansa dropped her gaze. He wondered if the way her eyes dragged across his skin was intentional. Her hand was still on his arm in just a whisper of a hold.

“Yes,” she said, her voice low.

Sandor pulled his arm free; the pressure of Sansa’s fingers were going to make him say- or do- something stupid, he knew it, so he took a long sip of coffee before speaking.

“Well, uh, you can see online which places are hiring.”

They spent the rest of the morning occupying their own little spaces. Sandor told Tormund to fuck off. Sansa sent her CV to a few places in town. When she stood up to make lunch. Sandor followed her. He stood by the fridge and when Sansa turned she nearly walked right into him. 

“I’m sorry,” Sansa said. “You move quietly. I mean-”

“What do you need?” Sandor interrupted.

“Cream, please.”

He passed it to her.

“I meant, do you need help?”

Sansa assured him that she was fine cooking lunch, and thanked him for cooking earlier, to which Sandor scoffed- it was virtually nothing. Still, he laid the table instead, and settled down in his place- _when did this become my place?_ He shook off the fear that came with sharing a routine and focused his attention on Sansa. She moved with a sort of grace that made Sandor lose track of time, his letters going unread in his hand.

“Um, Sandor?”

“Huh?” _Shit, has she been talking?_ “Uh, what?”

“I asked if you were ready to eat?”

“Yeah, yes, whatever. Sure.”

She brought over two bowls of risotto and they ate in silence. _She looks kind of comfortable,_ Sandor thought, noticing her lips curving upwards slightly. She looked up and saw Sandor staring at her, and _that’s bloody great, trust me to make her feel uncomfortable again._ Sandor dropped his gaze and picked up his phone instead, finding a message from Ellie.

**Ellie** does she have her phone back?

**Sandor** yes. I’ll send her your number.

**Ellie** :)

Sandor forwarded his sister's contact deals to Sansa.

**Sandor:** Here’s Ellie’s number. You don’t have to talk to her if you don’t want to, but if you do, she will probably never leave you alone.

Sansa picked up her phone, as it buzzed and read the message. Then she looked up, taking Sandor by surprise as she met his gaze for a heartbeat before returning her attention to her phone.

**Sansa:** Thank you

**Sansa:** I’m excited to get to know her.

**Sandor:** any updates on the job search?

**Sansa:** I’ve applied to a few places in town

“Oh?” Sandor said aloud. “Which?”

Sansa set her phone down.

“Just a few coffee shops. There’s a nursery that doesn’t have any spaces at the moment, but they said that they get busy during the holidays so I could apply in winter.”

“That sounds good.”

Sansa bit her lip. Sandor waited.

“If I am offered a job,” Sansa said, “How will I be travelling into town?”

“I can take you if our hours are similar.”

“I don’t wish to be a burden.”

Sandor hesitated. What was he meant to say to that? _You’re not a burden?_ The words sounded strange, and obvious, and Sandor knew that he would not be able to keep exasperation from colouring his tone if he said them.

“Friends,” he said instead. “Right?”

Sansa smiled.

“Friends can give lifts,” Sandor said, received at Sansa’s nod in response.

“Yes. Thank- wait,” She said, her eyes widening. “When you say that _you’re taking me, giving me a lift,_ do you mean….”

Sandor couldn’t help but grin, forgetting for a moment how it twisted his scars.

“.....on your motorbike?”

“It’s safe,” Sandor assured her. 

Sansa’s phone buzzed and she picked it up.

“I may have to take you up on that offer,” she said, a smile playing on her lips. She turned her phone around so that Sandor could see the screen. “They’ve offered me an interview.”

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

Two days later Sandor found himself knocking on their bedroom door.

“Are you almost ready?”

“Sorry,” Sansa said, opening the door. “Do you think this is an appropriate outfit?”

She wore the green blouse and black trousers that they had bought together, and had braided her hair.

“You look perfect,” Sandor said honestly. “Might be cold, though.”

Sansa turned around so he missed her immediate response, but when she returned to the door with a cardigan she was smiling.

“Ready?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” Sandor said. “Here’s your helmet.”

Sansa took it, her eyebrows raised.

“It’s, um, very red.”

“Thought it’d match your hair,” Sandor said.

He watched Sansa’s face morph into shock, her eyes widening. She shocked him by shooting him a mock scowl, which prompted a bark of laughter.

“Where do I sit?”

_Shit._ This part of the journey had escaped Sandor’s mind, and now it was there in full force. The thought of Sansa, Sansa with her tiny rucksack, Sansa in her smart work clothes, Sansa with a bright red helmet…… _Sansa who I agreed to be friends with just a few days ago. Ah, fuck. Alright._

“Behind me. You’ll need to hold on.” He kept his voice brusque and as detached as possible to cover his thoughts. _Her arms on my waist and her chest against my back and fuck, no, this is_ _not_ _the point._ It was very hard to distract himself though, and throughout the ride he could feel Sansa’s response acutely, from the yelp of surprise as he started the engine to the tightening of her hands on his waist as they turned corners. And of course, the way her chest seemed to mould to his back. When they reached the town centre, Sansa looked flushed, remaining on the bike after Sandor had stood up.

“That was- wow-” She said.

“You look, uh, warm?”

Sansa blushed deeper, if that was possible. Sandor offered her a hand, which she took, swinging her leg back over the bike and standing up. _It’s just as well she’s wearing trousers,_ Sandor thought, berating himself immediately. _Gods, stop it. Her face, focus on her face._ That didn’t help. Sandor reached out and unclipped her helmet. Sansa sucked in a breath, but didn’t flinch. _What’s that meant to mean, then?_ Sandor lifted the helmet off.

“How bad is my hair?” Sansa asked with a wry smile.

“Not too bad,” Sandor said. It wasn’t entirely a lie; sure, it was messy, but _he_ liked it, little waves of hair escaping the loosened braid. Sansa bit her lip but straightened her back, clearly trying to hide her nerves.

“They’ll love you,” Sandor said. “It’s a coffee shop, isn’t it?”

Sansa nodded. “If it goes well I’ll have my trial shift today as well.”

“Let me know how it goes.”

“Thank you,” Sansa said.

Sandor frowned.

“For, um, allowing me this.”

“No, ah-” Sandor hesitated. “Friends,” he said, though the word was deeply ironic already, the memory of Sansa’s body pressed against his burning bright in his mind. But it helped illustrate his point. “I would like for you to do what you want,” he said, trying to make his point without overwhelming her. “None of that society bullshit, thanking me for basic decency.”

Sansa blinked, and there was a long pause that made Sandor bite his tongue for fear of lashing out and snapping at her.

“In that case,” Sansa said, speaking slowly, “I thank you not for the job, but for the ride here, and for your encouragement and support. How is that?”

_Not exactly what I meant, little bird._ Sandor couldn’t help but smile a little at Sansa’s insistence to thank him. One look at her bright blue eyes told Sandor that she spoke the words in earnest, and there was something deeply unsettling about that. Not only had she not flinched when he reached for the helmet, she also made eye contact with him- no, _sought out_ eye contact, at little moments; Sandor had noticed it as they ate, and again now, Sansa staring up at him as if… Well, as if he wasn’t who he was. As if he wasn’t some ugly old bastard. But Sansa’s open expression betrayed no deception so he was forced to concede with a nod.

“Sure, little bird,” Sandor mumbled, dropping his gaze.

“I should let you get to work.”

“Right. Uh, good luck.”

He was rewarded with a tentative smile, and met it with a nod as he walked away. _Of course I’m not worried. She’ll be fine. Capable young woman. She’ll be fine._

When her text came through a few hours later Sandor heaved a sigh of relief. _Exactly,_ he thought, _I knew she’d be fine._

**Sansa:** it went well! :)

**Sansa:** I have a shift that ends at 8pm if that’s okay?

**Sandor:** Yes that’s fine.

**Sandor:** Well done, little bird. 

Sandor made his way to the coffee shop after work, checking his phone as he walked.

**Arya:** Done

_Could she be any_ _less_ _specific?_

**Sandor:** you sent the number of the mechanic to ellie? 

**Arya:** yh

**Sandor:** key under doormat?

**Arya:** yh. don’t be too long.

**Sandor:** going to get sansa now, won’t be longer than half an hour.

**Arya:** good.

**Arya is typing.**

Sandor stared at the screen for a full minute before giving up and turning the screen off. It was then, of course, that Arya sent another message. 

**Arya:** and thanks

**Arya:** or whatever

**Sandor:** sure.

  
**Sandor:** or whatever.


	15. Making Coffee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! This is a continuation of last chapter but from Sansa's POV. The next chapter will follow straight on (also Sansa's POV), but it'll be a bit of a shorter chapter. It was originally one chapter, but I've had a bit of a chaotic few days with packing up my life to move North. I might have mentioned this before but if my uploads become less frequent, that's why (I absolutely will not abandon this fic though).
> 
> We are so close to 8000 views and I find that absolutely crazy to think about, thank you all for reading, commenting, and leaving kudos. My life is.... less than stable right now, so having such a great response from you guys means a lot. I hope you're enjoying and continue to do so; do let me know your thoughts :)

## Chapter Fifteen: Making Coffee

###  **Sansa**

Sansa took a deep breath before pushing open the door to the coffee shop. _“You look perfect,”_ Sandor had said. She was glad she had bought the trousers and blouse when they went shopping; though the calendars claimed autumn was still a week away, the September air brought a chill that would have been uncomfortable were she in a skirt. _Not to mention that trousers made the motorbike ride easier._ As she stood in the coffee shop queue, Sansa couldn’t help but shiver, pulling her cardigan a little closer. Nerves punctuated her stomach like butterflies multiplying by the second, and there was another feeling there too, something that she couldn’t quite identify. It was the same feeling that made her hold on Sandor’s waist perhaps a little too tightly, some feeling that made her tighten her grip when she wasn’t really worried about falling off the motorbike at all. She hadn’t needed to press so close to him, not with her entire front, but she knew that whenever they next rode on the motorbike she was absolutely going to do the same thing. _Perhaps the feeling was anticipation? Now it’s nerves, but then……_

There was something undeniably comforting about Sandor. Sansa had felt it when he hugged her, careful arms creating a temporary haven. But the motorbike ride was more than that, a whisper of a promise that spoke of more than just comfort. Sansa realised that she was at the front of the queue, strangely calmed by her recollection of Sandor. _My hair must look an absolute fright._ But there was no time to concern herself with that, because a voice drawled,

_“Can I help?”_

The woman at the till sounded incredibly bored, but as Sansa stepped nearer she raised her eyebrows and gave her a once over.

“Hi,” Sansa said, ignoring the blatant stare. “I’m Sansa St-- um, I’m Sansa. I’m here for a job interview.”

_“You’re_ Sansa? From your email I was expecting a doddering old woman, but look at you!”

Sansa tried not to feel offended. _I_ _did_ _put my age on my CV…._

“Right, there’s no one here for now, so we’ll just duck into a back room. I’m Myranda.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Myranda.”

“ _Nice._ If it was anyone else calling me such a bland word, I’d be offended. Now then, let’s find out your personal information.”

Sansa momentarily forgot about the interview and instead found herself frozen in the doorway.

“Come in, then, unless you want everyone in the cafe overhearing.”

“Sorry,” Sansa said, finally taking a step forwards. The room was dark, lit only by old electric lights that spanned one strip of the ceiling. Myranda rummaged through a cabinet lining the wall.

“Sit, sit,” she said, waving a hand behind her.

Sansa sat down on a rickety folding chair.

“Thank you.”

“No one uses this room, as you can see. Here’s what you’ll need to fill out.”

She threw down a pile of paper haphazardly stapled together, with a pen on top. Sansa reached for it, but Myranda’s hand was back, lightning-fast, slamming down on top of Sansa’s.

“But first,” Myranda said, offering Sansa a wicked grin, “Let’s find out what you’re about.”

“What I’m about?” Sansa echoed.

“Yes. It’s not often we get someone as beautiful as you working here.”

“Oh, um, I thank you-”

“No, no, not a compliment. Why would someone like you want to work here? You have more than good qualifications-” _so she_ _did_ _read my CV-_ “-And you’re young, and privately tutored. Now, in _my_ experience, private tutoring means one of two things: either you were a troublemaker at school, or you were rich. So, Sansa, which one are you?”

_Neither,_ Sansa thought. _Though I suppose with my bride price my family are once more prospering. Well, holding on, at least- prospering is a bit of a stretch._

Myranda laughed so loudly that Sansa jumped, the chair squeaking as it slid on the floor.

“Rich, then. So why the job?”

“I wanted something to do,” Sansa said honestly.

“Not university? Or a better job?”

“Something close to my home,” Sansa said. _Is this meant to be an interview? It is….. not what I expected._

“You live at home, then, with your parents?”

“I recently moved out.”

“Interesting. Well, let’s get on with the boring part before we chat more.”

_Before you interrogate me, more like._ Myranda removed her hand from the stack of paper. Sansa turned over the first page.

“No, no, you don’t need to read all that. Here.” Myranda flicked through the stack and found the first space for Sansa’s signature.

“We already have your basic information- name, address, emergency contact. We just need confirmation that you’re not a secret runaway felon, disguised and ready to commit more crimes.”

Sansa stared at her.

“I’m not a criminal.”

“Great, sign here then.”

Sansa picked up the pen and wrote her name slowly. _Sansa Clegane._ The words together were unfamiliar, though not attractive. Sansa couldn’t help a small smile from gracing her lips. Myranda snorted at her.

“With that pretty smile, you’ll be getting more tips than me. Though I’ve more _assets._ ” Her grin would have been infectious if it wasn't so suggestive.

Sansa knew that her face was heating up; thankfully Myranda didn’t seem to want a response.

“Because I like you, I’ll only make you give me half of your tips for the first month.”

_Am I meant to thank her?_ Sansa just kept that smile fixed on her face, doing her best to be polite. She turned the next page. _Code of Conduct._

“Yeah, yeah, don’t be an asshole, that’s simple enough.” 

Sansa caught a glimpse of the heading ‘dress code’ before Myranda turned the page, and tried not to think of the other woman’s _assets,_ very visible with the tight top that she wore. 

“Remind me to give you an apron,” Myranda said. “You can wear what you want underneath it. Well, nothing inappropriate, but I hardly think _that_ will be a problem.”

Myranda took a step backwards and sighed as she looked through the door.

“I see a customer,” she sighed. “Try and get the rest done.”

With that she was gone, temporarily at least. Sansa tried to read quickly, signing in two places to confirm that she did not have a second job, nor did she have any physical health conditions. Sansa was in the midst of writing down her qualifications gained through her private tutors when her eyes strayed to the next question.

“You’ve stopped.”

Sansa jumped.

“You’re back,” she said, rather stupidly.

“Back to take care of you,” Myranda said with a grin.

_That’s what I’m worried about._

“So, what are you stuck with?” Myranda immediately started to make her way over to Sansa.

“No, no, there’s no need--” Sansa tried to protest but it was no use, and she was reduced to surreptitiously trying to cover the page with her hand.

“You were saying?” Myranda said.

“Oh, I was just wondering, who is going to read this?”

“Not me, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Sansa felt herself grow hot with embarrassment at how easily Myranda had seen through her.

“It’ll be one of the supervisors. They might stop by at some point but that’ll be all. You likely won’t interact with them much.” The woman’s raised eyebrow spoke of her questions but Sansa ignored her obvious curiosity and thankfully Myranda didn’t push her, for once. Sansa returned to the forms, finished writing her qualifications, and faced the next question. _Please select your marital status._ She put a neat tick in the box labelled _married,_ careful not to let the tail of her tick stray into _divorced._

“Finished?”

“I think so.”

“Great. Give me that, I’ll chuck it in a drawer for now. So, do you know the differences between types of coffee?”

“Yes, I do.” _I’ve done my research, at least._ To Sansa’s surprise, Myranda simply laughed.

“Great, you’re better than me already. Come on, let’s go back out. I suppose I shouldn’t be leaving the till alone for too long. At some point I’ll show you the rest of the area- cloakroom, staff toilets- but we can do that after we close up sometime. Now, where to start? We have all day, so we can take it slow.”

“Thank you,” Sansa said with a smile. “We, um, have all day?”

“Your shift ends at eight. I did tell you that in the email, didn’t I?”

“Oh! Um, yes.”

Myranda turned to deal with another customer and Sansa slipped out her phone. _Did I just get a job? That was the least formal interview ever._ She texted Sandor.

**Sansa:** it went well! :)

**Sansa:** I have a shift that ends at 8pm if that’s okay?

**Sandor:** Yes that’s fine.

**Sandor:** Well done, little bird. 

Sansa barely had time to marvel at the use of his nickname before Myranda appeared.

“I’m sorry," Sansa said, putting her phone back into her pocket. "I was just letting my friend know about timings- he’s my ride home.”

“It’s fine,” Myranda said. “Sometimes customers complain when we’re on our phones, though, so you’d better hide behind the smoothie machine when you text. Now let’s get onto the good stuff.”

Sansa decided that some of the good stuff was indeed good. She enjoyed making the coffee itself, tearing off the receipts, and placing a biscuit by each drink. Most of all, she enjoyed the customer interaction, and time passed quickly. The only problem arose when it came to steaming the milk. Myranda insisted that the thermometers weren’t needed- _‘like we need more things to wash up!’-_ so Sansa had no idea how warm the milk was. Then there was the sound, the horrible screech that had made her jump the first time as the hot air suddenly started. Gods, it was loud, but Myranda insisted that Sansa listen to the pitch of the air so that she could tell when the milk was ready. _A thermometer would be easier,_ Sansa thought, but she said nothing. _It’s my first shift. I don’t want to offend her._

Still, Myranda might have been loud and crude, but she was also helpful. She told Sansa that if she just leaned forwards behind the smoothie making to go on her phone, most of the customers wouldn’t be able to see her. And when Sansa pressed the wrong button and overflowed an espresso cup with a double shot of coffee, Myranda had simply laughed and directed Sansa in the direction of some paper towels as she restarted the order.

The rest of the afternoon passed smoothly, and soon Sansa found herself glancing at the clock and finding that her shift had ended. Sansa’s phone buzzed against her leg and she sneaked her phone around the corner of the smoothie machine as Myranda suggested, feeling like a criminal.

**One new message.**

**Sandor:** I’m outside.

**Sansa:** Would you like a coffee? I’m very good at making them now :)

Was that too forward, too boastful? He might not even want a coffee.

**Sansa:** or something else to drink?

**Sansa:** it doesn’t have to be coffee

**Sansa:** but we’ve put the smoothie machine off for the evening

**Sandor:** coffee is fine, little bird.

**Sansa:** black?

**Sandor:** how did you know?

**Sansa:** lucky guess

It was a slight lie, but _'I watch you make coffee every morning and I know you’ve gone down from two spoons to one and a half and you prefer Columbian roast'_ felt a bit creepy.

**Sansa:** decaf?

**Sandor:** if you can, yeah.

**Sansa:** would you like to come inside?

**Sandor:** can’t. Can i have it to takeaway?

**Sansa:** of course, I'll be out in a moment

**Sandor:** you shouldn’t be so quick to come outside.

**Sansa:** I’m sorry, I don’t understand?

**Sandor:** i could be a complete stranger.

**Sansa:** but it’s your phone? :/

**Sandor:** could have stolen it.

Sansa shook her head. Her husband was ridiculous. _Doesn’t he realise I can recognise the way he speaks, even over text? Is he concerned about me?_ A little spark of confidence sent her finger to the call button before she could stop herself.

**Calling Sandor.**

He picked up immediately, confusion lacing his tone.

“Everything alright?”

“I can recognise how you speak over text so I know you aren’t a stranger.”

“Hmph.”

Sansa smiled.

“Anyway, I know your voice, so I know I’m safe now.”

There was a pause.

“Yeah, you’re safe.”

“I- um, I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

“Why’re you whispering?”  
“I’m not meant to be on my phone. I won't be long.”

With that she hung up. _Was I too abrupt? It’s only because I’m so eager to see him._ Sansa bit her lip at the thought, trying to keep the smile from her face as she gathered her things and took off the apron.

“Myranda, is it alright if I leave now?”

“Eh? Of course, your shift ended ten minutes ago.”

“Thanks!”

Then she was gone, doing up her cardigan buttons and scrambling for the door all in one go.

“Hi,” she said, a little out of breath. “Here’s your coffee--” 

Sandor reached out, awkwardly leaning forwards for his coffee, careful not to pull on the lead- _wait_ , Sansa thought. _Why is he holding a lead?_

“Oh! Aren’t you _beautiful_?”

“Careful, he’s not great with--” “Oh, you must be-”

“Strangers.” “Stranger!”

“Uh, right.”

Sansa had already ducked down, reaching out to pet the dog. His size was a little intimidating at first- _just like his owner-_ but all dogs loved Sansa. Always. Her family said it must be some tie to the wolves of the North, except for that time when Arya was angry and said dogs only liked Sansa because she was a bitc-- Sansa shook away the thoughts, emotion curling into her heart. For some reason, the fact that Sandor was introducing Sansa to his dog felt oddly significant. So when Stranger sniffed her hand and only offered Sansa a vague wag of his tail, she felt slightly disheartened. He didn’t protest when she stroked him, though, and that must be a good sign.

“I’m not sure if he likes me.”

“He does. He- I’ve not seen him like this. He usually takes a lot longer to warm up to people.”

Sansa looked up at Sandor.

“He’s thrilled. Honest. Just….”

“Not very good at showing his emotions?” She suggested, pushing down the urge to laugh.

“Sounds about right.”

“Is that right, Stranger? Do you like me?”

The dog gave another tiny wag of his tail. He certainly didn’t _seem_ thrilled, but Sandor looked utterly surprised, and Sansa knew that he wouldn’t lie, even over something like this. She gave Stranger another pat. Despite his size, he was calm and gentle- _just like his owner?_ Sansa wasn’t sure; she couldn’t quite place the emotion she saw flicker across her husband’s face when she looked up and beamed at him.

“Oh, I’m sorry. It’s nice to see you, Sandor.” She hesitated. _He said to call him Sandor in public, but it is evening now, no one is on the streets, so perhaps…._ “Or, um, am I to call you hus--”

“Sandor is fine. Uh, if it’s fine with you.”

“Yes,” Sansa smiled. She stood up, still smiling. “Sandor is fine.”

Sandor took a sip of his coffee, his eyes widening as he did so.

“What is this?”

“It’s just hazelnut flavoured black coffee-” A dreadful thought struck Sansa. “Oh, _oh, shit- oh gods, are you allergic to nuts?”_

Sandor’s mouth fell open.

_“Did you just swear?”_

_“Sandor!”_

He shook his head.

“I’m not allergic.”

_“Oh,_ good.” Involuntarily, Sansa's hand crept to her heart. “I’m so sorry, I should have checked.”

“It’s, uh, good coffee. And even if I were allergic, it would have been worth it to hear you swear.”

Sansa felt her skin grow hot even in the early-autumn air.

“I’m sorry,” she said again. “That was- foolish- can’t believe I didn’t think to check-” she took a deep breath. “ _Are_ you allergic to anything?”

He hesitated.

“Kiwis. You?”

“No, nothing-”

The honk of a car horn made Sansa jump and Sandor sigh. Sansa turned around, shrinking back from the bright headlights.

“It’s- ah. I- You said you liked dogs-”

Another blare of the car horn.

“Hold Stranger,” Sandor muttered, passing Sansa the lead. She took it, bewildered further when he moved away, leaving her blinking in the spotlight the car had created, wondering when it had gotten so dark. Sandor stalked away towards the car; Sansa had no doubt that he was glaring at the person inside.

“Just one minute,” she heard him say to his friend. “Yes, that’s her. Yes, I fucking noticed.” Something else, too quiet to decipher, and then he was coming back, calling over his shoulder as he walked. “Put those bloody headlights off for a minute.”

“It’s Bronn,” Sandor said when he reached Sansa. “He’s going to give us a lift home. You said you liked dogs, so I- Stranger- thought he might stay with us.”

Sansa nodded. Sandor didn’t seem to notice. He muttered something to himself that she couldn’t hear.

“Is that alright?” He asked.

“Stranger living with us? That sounds amazing.”

She meant it, truly. She had felt the absence of a dog in the house since the start of their marriage. Stranger was no Lady, but Sansa liked him already and was sure that she would one day be able to get more of a reaction out of him, despite Sandor's insistence that he really did like her.

“Good,'' Sandor said, and his voice was the same as normal, rough as a sword over stone, but Sansa saw the way his shoulders slumped slightly in relief.

“Sorry in advance for Bronn,” he added.

_I’ve handled Myranda for the afternoon,_ Sansa thought. _How bad can Bronn possibly be?_


	16. Journey Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, picking up where we left off with Chapter Sixteen, a Sansa POV chapter. It’s short, but it pushes us to 50,000 words, wow! I seriously thought we were around 30,000 so that’s a shock. And I say this every time but seriously the support from you guys is getting me through- I move North tomorrow and am not looking forward to it even slightly but refreshing the page and finding more hits and comments and kudos is holding me together :). 
> 
> I have the next chapter ready in advance (another short one, Sandor’s POV), so fingers crossed my schedule won’t be too severely disrupted. Depending on how life goes, I may have to slow updates a bit, but I'll keep you updated. As usual, if there's anything you want to see, let me know. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter; do tell me what you think :)

## Chapter Sixteen: Journey Home

###  **Sansa**

_ How bad can Bronn possibly be? _ Sansa thought. It was hard to see him, but Sansa smiled in his general direction. He stuck a hand out of the car window in a wave and called out,

“Dogs in the back- Sandor, I want your girl in the front.”

“Absolutely not.”

Sandor was in the front passenger’s seat in an instant, leaving Sansa to clamber into the back next to Stranger, who was sitting on the seat next to her, already staring out of the window like some kind of pseudo-human. Sansa could see Bronn in the rear view mirror, and probably Sandor too if she twisted a little….

“So you’re the mysterious Sansa I've been hearing Sandor gush about.”

“Bronn-” Sandor started.

“What do you mean?” Sansa asked. She was intrigued, though loathe to admit it. Her attempts to hide her interest were fruitless, if Bronn’s sly grin was anything to go by.

“We hear a lot about you at work. You’re not what I expected, I must say.”

“Oh?”

“Too good for me,” she heard Sandor mutter. Bronn ignored him.

"What do you mean?" Sansa asked Bronn. _What's so unusual about me?_

"Nothin'," Bronn said, with an effortless shrug. "You're not his usual type, but then, Sandor's never been one for relationships."

"Leave it alone, Bronn," Sandor said, raising his voice slightly.

“Come on,” Bronn said, “You can’t say you aren’t an unlikely pairing, eh?”

“We’re friends,” Sansa offered, hoping to diffuse the tension.

“Friends that live together.”

“She needed a place to stay.”

“Sure, sure,” Bronn said. “So you decided to move out of the apartment, hm?”

Sandor said nothing to that. Sansa hesitated before speaking. She couldn’t see Sandor’s expression where she sat without twisting, but his shoulders were tense.

“Sandor has been kind to me,” Sansa said, her voice coming out quiet, too quiet. She could see that Sandor’s hand rested on the side of the door, his arm tense, his knuckles white.

"And I bet you've been good to him too," Bronn said, full of wry mirth. "Well, you know what they say about good girls... they like it rough."

Sansa could hear the smirk in his voice, but all she could focus on were his words.

“Bronn,” Sandor said, his voice a dangerously low growl. “Shut up.”

Sansa twisted her hands together in her lap. Sandor was still speaking but she couldn't hear him. She reached over the car seats, ignoring the bite of her seatbelt on her shoulder, and let Stranger sniff her hand before ruffling his fur. It was long, unlike Lady’s, but soft, and he was warm and undeniably alive, enough to set her at ease enough to glance back up front at the men talking. Bronn was trying to get her attention, glancing at her in her mirror every few seconds.

“Sansa?”

“Oh, I-”

“Sorry,” he said, cutting her off. “Didn't mean to be insensitive.” He did a good job of looking contrite, though the look he shot Sandor suggested that he wasn't really sure what he had said wrong.

“It's quite alright, truly,” Sansa said. “I- I only meant to say, that is, I ought to-” She stumbled over her words.  _ What am I doing?  _ Her eyes darted away from Bronn and she caught Sandors gaze in the mirror. He held it, perfectly steady, and Sansa let her lips curve up in a small smile, enough to thank him.

“I meant to say,” Sansa said to Bronn, “That I'm sorry, but I’m not comfortable discussing any relationships I may or may not be in.” Her voice held steady and Sansa tried to keep her breathing controlled instead of letting it all out in a rush like she wanted to. A flash of surprise crossed Bronn’s face briefly.

“More fire in you than just your hair, then,” he said, smiling. “I understand.”

“Thank you,” Sansa mumbled.

Her gaze crept back over to Sandor. He gave a barely noticeable nod before turning to Bronn to respond to whatever he was talking about now. Sansa took it as a sign of approval, and it made her feel like they were a team. Sansa felt her mind spinning back to the idea of annulment and the fact that everything had been as Sandor had promised a few days ago. They were getting to know each other, as friends. They had not mentioned annulment again, and now that their marriage was established as something akin to friendship, Sansa felt more at ease around her husband.  _ Now he is introducing me to his friends- well, not exactly- but he has given me a glimpse of his inner life, and Stranger is to live with us. That shows he does not mean to leave me, shows that I can trust him. _ It was enough to send a small grin creeping across Sansa's face and she sought out Sandor’s, twisting a little so as to watch him through the mirror without him noticing.

“Uh, Sansa? Did y-”

“Sorry,” Sansa said, interrupting Bronn. ”I’m afraid I didn’t quite catch that.”

She hoped it was too dark for the men to see her blush, but she supposed it didn’t matter since her voice was noticeably breathy.  _ Why am I so flustered? It is certainly warmer in here than outside. _

“I said that Margaery would adore you. You should meet her. If you’d like.”

“Margaery? That’s….”

“She’s Bronn’s girlfriend,” Sandor explained.

“Technically-”

“Only they refuse to say it.”

“She says she doesn’t want to be tied down,” Bronn said, a weak protest.

“You practically live together. Been tied down for years now.”

Sansa settled back into her seat as the two men talked.

“I’d like to meet her,” she said softly. Her words silenced Sandor.

“Great,” Bronn said, “We’ll have to set something up.”

When they reached the estate, Sandor got out of the car and walked around to open the door for Sansa first, and then Stranger.

“Just a moment,” Bronn said, as Sansa moved to leave. “If you don’t mind?”

She froze.  _ No, no, I’m fine. Remember to focus on facts, evaluate the danger. Sandor is just outside, and the door is open. I’m safe.  _ She nodded at Bronn to continue.

“I just wanted to say it’s good to have you around,” Bronn said. “Sandor needs someone to force him outside, as I’m sure you know.”

“I noticed,” Sansa said with a smile. “It was nice to meet you, and it would be nice to do something together with you and Margaery.”

“A double date,” Bronn agreed.

Sansa ignored  _ that  _ and offered a quick goodbye before leaving the car.

“Sorry about him,” Sandor muttered as they walked up their driveway.

“It’s alright,” Sansa said. “I have a feeling he didn’t mean anything badly.”

“No, he’s an idiot, but he’s harmless enough. You, uh, handled it well.”

“Thank you. I, um, I decided to talk to the Elder Brother, as you suggested…”

“He told me he passed you onto a female therapist.”

“He- yes, he did. She’s been very helpful so far. You didn’t say anything…” Sansa looked up at his face. It was difficult to see in the darkness. He could feel angry or betrayed, and she would be unable to tell. Sansa swallowed. “I should have told you. I wasn’t sure how to bring it up.”

“It’s fine, little bird. You don’t have to tell me everything.”

“Oh,” Sansa said. “Thank you, but I feel rather hypocritical, since I wish to know everything about you.”

The words came out unbidden, though that did not make them any less true- if anything, the opposite was the case.

Sandor was silent.

“Friends know each other,” Sansa ventured. “If it pleases you, I-”

“Right,” Sandor said. “Yes. Sure. If you’d like. Uh, we should be getting inside.”

“Of course,” Sansa murmured, only half listening. She had heard something from the other side of the door, and as Sandor crouched down to get the key from under the mat, she heard it again.  _ That sound….  _ It was like the tapping of…. Sansa gasped as she heard a whine and the pieces slotted into place. Yes, she knew that whine. She knew the sound of those steps, claws neatly snapping on the ground, steps even and steady and never a rushed scrabble like the rest of the pack. She knew it all. It was Lady. 

The door swung open and Sansa stepped inside.

“Lady?”

Sure enough, Lady padded towards her and Sansa was rendered frozen.

“Dunno if it’s not a good idea but I thought what with Stranger, you said she liked other dogs and so does he and they’re both trained so thought you might want her to be with us as well. I had Arya bring her over.”

Sansa turned to look at her husband. Sandor broke off, stuffed his hands in his pockets and shrugged. Sansa wondered how he could dismiss this with a shrug and a near-sob finally wrenched out of her throat. She dropped to her knees and buried her face in Lady’s fur. When she pulled away it was with a laugh through her barely-unshed tears. It seemed to assure Sandor that she was alright, and he disappeared with a mumble of  _ I’ll make dinner.  _ Sansa simply nodded, remembering how she had last seen Lady, given her a simple pat goodbye. Her parents had looked impressed at her maturity, not realising she had spent the best part of the night before sobbing with muffled, uncontrollable cries at the thought of never having Lady by her side again. Now…. now she was  _ here _ .

“Oh, Lady…” Sansa kissed her dog’s forehead and met her gaze. “You will like him. I’m certain of it, absolutely certain, because I do too.”

When she walked into the kitchen, drying her eyes on her sleeve, she found Sandor already making something for them to eat.

“Oh,” Sansa said, suddenly embarrassed at her display of emotion. “I, um. About Lady-”

“I take it you want her to stay here then?”

“Yes,” Sansa said. “What I mean to say is, you’ve been so- I- just-”  _ What can I possibly offer in return? _

“It’s fine, little bird. You want her here, she stays. Stranger’ll be glad of the company.”

“Okay,” Sansa said.

Sandor turned towards her then and she moved forwards, gratitude fuelling her with spontaneity. Sansa wrapped her arms around Sandor and crushed him in a hug. She held him close, her nose enveloped by his smell, throat once again thick with emotion.

“Thank you,” she said. “So much.”

Sandor finally moved, wrapping his arms around her, and Sansa melted into him with an audible sigh.

“Sansa…”

“No,” she said, smiling. “I know what you will say.”

“It’s nothing,” he muttered anyway.

“It’s everything. It means everything to me, Sandor. Thank you.”

“Was hoping it might make you happier but instead made you cry,” he said with a wry smile.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” Sansa finally pulled back, offering her husband a shy smile. “Happy tears.”

“Happy tears,” he echoed with a bark of a laugh. “Good. Anything you want for dinner?”

Sansa shook her head.

“Would you like some help?” She asked.

“No, I’ll make it. You could, I don’t know, nap or have a bath- must’ve been a busy day. First day at work, and all that.”

“Might I stay in here?”

Sandor’s brows pulled together briefly in confusion.

“You can do what you want,” he muttered.

Sansa settled herself at the kitchen island, her elbows resting on the counter and her fingers interlocked. She rested her head on her hands. Sandor turned away towards the fridge.

“When’s the next shift then?”

“Tomorrow morning,” Sansa said. “I think you said you were working in the morning, so if it isn’t too much trouble, might I have a lift? Is the motorbike still in town?”

“I took it home at lunch and walked back into town, so we’re all good. I take it you liked the ride today, then?”

Sansa nodded, her face warming. Sandor’s lips twitched.

“A lift on the way back too?”

“Yes please. My shift ends at lunch, so I was hoping to spend the afternoon together, if, um, if you would like.”

“Sure. We could take the dogs out.”

Sansa tried not to grin too widely. She bit her lip and smiled at Sandor. He put something in the oven- Sansa didn’t even notice what it was- and turned to face her.

“So,” Sandor said, as if oblivious of her happiness. “Uh, how was your day?” 

Sansa looked at him, his broad shoulders, his hands stuffed in his pockets, his long hair. All the memories of her day fled her mind, Myranda and the coffee shop and Bronn drifting away until all that was left was Sandor and Stranger and Lady.

“Wonderful,” Sansa said. “Today was wonderful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well done Katinka31 for predicting how I'd introduce Lady :)


	17. Routine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, hi everyone! It’s been exactly one month since I started posting this fic, and I just want to take a second to thank you all! Seriously, I can’t believe it’s our monthiversary and we’ve had over 9000 views, 400+ kudos, and _so many_ wonderful comments. It means a lot to me, especially since life has suddenly become chaotic, so thank you :)
> 
> Here is Chapter Seventeen- I hope you like it. The next chapter is another from Sandor’s POV; it will hopefully be up in two days as usual, but moving is going interestingly (horribly) so it may be three days. Thanks for reading and let me know what you think of this chapter :)

## Chapter Seventeen: Routine

###  **Sandor**

_It’s strange,_ Sandor thought, reflecting on the odd little routine he and Sansa now shared. It was like they had fallen into it, accidentally memorising each other’s habits. _Her second full day at work today,_ he thought. Time was moving fast, and it panicked him a little. _How have we been married for over two weeks?_ So far, Sansa had just been taking shifts at the coffee shop whenever they were available, but now she was trying to establish some regular shifts now that she had the basics under control. The evening before, she had shyly asked for Sandor’s work timetable, which he readily gave.

“Good idea,” he said. “We can see if one of us can be home so the dogs aren’t alone for too long.” 

Sansa hesitated.

“What is it?” Sandor asked.

“I was hoping that I might choose shifts that coincide with yours,” Sansa ventured, “So that we might spend some of our free time together, if that would be alright with you?”

There was a pause as the words slowly sank in.

“No,” Sansa said, “You’re right, um, nevermind, the dogs-”

At the sound of her voice dropping quieter Sandor finally gained enough self control to speak in a measured voice.

“You _want_ to spend time together?” He asked, trying not to let incredulity slip into his tone.

Sansa nodded like it was the most ordinary request in the world.

“Sure,” Sandor muttered.

“Only if you would like to,” Sansa said.

“I would,” Sandor said, without missing a beat. He opened his mouth quickly to take it back but Sansa had given him that smile- _by the gods_ \- that little smile where she bit her her lower lip as if she was holding back a full grin, so Sandor had just dropped his gaze. It was almost overwhelming, having someone who suddenly wanted to see him, and be near him, and….. Well, it was a lot. But he wasn’t complaining.

_I need to make sure I don’t get carried away,_ Sandor thought. _I have to remember that it’s a friendship._ The worst thing would be to scare Sansa away by losing control. Still, it was difficult, especially when Sansa held him tight on their rides to town, though really, she didn’t seem nervous at all. At least not nervous enough to warrant her tight grip around his waist. It was almost enough that Sandor could delude himself into thinking that there was something _more_ there, physically at least. Then there were the mornings; Sansa seemed to invade more and more of his side of the bed each night. Sandor was just glad that he was the one that woke up first, spending agonising minutes untangling Sansa’s legs from his and laying her head back onto the pillow instead of on his chest. But he knew it meant nothing. So what if he spent a few extra minutes some mornings just relishing in the warmth of her body? _It means nothing._ Autumn was on its way, and her body was probably just attracted to the heat of his. It did _not_ mean that she was attracted to him; it meant nothing, and that was fine. _Yes, everything is fine._ They were establishing a friendship, a routine, and _I’ll be damned before I ruin this._

Sandor reached for his phone as it buzzed, though he already knew what the text would say.

**Sansa:** I’m there :)

**Sandor:** omw.

“Lunch break,” he muttered to Bronn as he walked past.

“Did you say lunch date?” Bronn asked.

“Absolutely not.”  
  


Sandor could spot Sansa easily as he approached their meeting place. She was leaning against the motorbike, one hand absentmindedly tracing up and down the seat. She was looking at something on her phone and glanced up when Sandor’s shadow fell across her. Sandor pretended not to notice how she startled, and how quickly she relaxed once she saw it was him.

“Hi,” Sansa said. “Same place as yesterday?”

Sandor shook his head. For lunch yesterday they had sat on a bench and spun theories about the people that walked past as they ate homemade sandwiches.

“Was thinking we could walk to a park,” he said. “How long’ve you got?”

“I have an hour.”

“Sounds good.”

They started to walk. Each time they crossed a road, Sandor moved so that Sansa was on his slightly-tolerable side, and each time, she would resolutely swap, ensuring that she stayed on his left side, so that she was faced with the tangle of scars there. _What exactly is she trying to prove with this ridiculous game?_ When they reached Elm Park, Sandor sat on the left side of the bench so that Sansa was forced to sit to the right of him. She stood in front of him for several seconds without sitting down, chewing on her lip. She opened her mouth like she might say something but then decided against it, settling on the bench by his side, far closer than she could have.

“This place is nice,” she said.

Sandor nodded at the crest of the hill in front of them. “Over there's where I found the pups,” he said.

“Stranger?”

“And his siblings.”

Then he was telling Sansa the full story, and she was listening and asking questions, and the conversation flowed as it so often seemed to when Sansa was around.

“I would never have guessed his history from meeting him,” she said. “You raised him so well.”

Sandor shrugged off the praise.

“Young pups learn quick,” he said. “Older dogs, it’s trickier.”

“You’ve had older dogs too?”

“My grandfather did. Took in old racing dogs.”

Sansa seemed to realise that he didn’t want to talk about his family and didn’t push him. Sandor changed the subject and asked about Lady, and Sansa told him that all of the Stark siblings had their own dog, all from the same litter. After hearing all of their names, he confidently chose Ghost as the best one, guessing correctly that it must be Jon’s.

“Lady does suit her name, though,” he said, a half-concession.

“She does,” Sansa smiled. “She has better manners than the rest of the pack put together.”

Neither of them even thought about eating until Sansa’s alarm rang, insisting that it was time to get back. They ate quickly then, and walked back quicker still, so Sandor was surprised when Sansa paused before they returned to work.

“Everything alright?”

“Yes,” she said. Sandor recognised the look that overtook her features- she pressed her lips together tightly and a slight frown graced her face. He was yet to figure out what that expression meant.

“Thank you for lunch today,” Sansa finally continued. “I’ll see you here later?”

“See you later,” Sandor agreed.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

When they arrived home there was a glow of light in the windows.

“Do you think she just left the lights on for the dogs?” Sandor asked. He tried not to inject too much hope into his voice, but seven hells, he hadn’t seen Arya since the time she offered to kill him. He had texted her to arrange bringing over Lady since then, but hadn’t seen her in person. She had agreed to look after the dogs since both Sansa and Sandor were working for the entirety of that Tuesday.

“I reckon she’s still in there,” Sansa said.

“One way to find out.”

_Of course she’s still bloody here,_ Sandor thought, as they entered the kitchen to find Arya happily slumped on a chair with a foot on the table. Sansa shot her a frown. Arya reluctantly removed her foot.

“Good day?”

Sansa nodded. “Tiring,” she said. “But pretty good. I get paid in a week. I found a new sewing machine I’d like to buy, but it’s rather expensive.”

“I can bring your old one next week if you’d like.”

“Please, that would be great.”

Sandor left them to wander into the kitchen. He opened the fridge.

“What do you want to eat?” Sandor called. _When will Arya get the hint and leave?_

“Oh, I ordered pizza,” Arya shouted back. “Didn’t know when you’d be back.”

_Gods have mercy._

The evening would have been fine- tolerable even, since there was food- if not for Sansa constantly trying to involve Sandor in her and Arya’s conversation. Arya barely looked in his direction- _better than hostility, I suppose-_ but Sansa glanced at Sandor every so often, though what she was looking for, he had no idea. 

They eventually settled into silence as they ate. Arya had at least ordered a decent amount of pizza, and Sandor _almost_ started to relax, but then there was a buzz from the table. Sansa’s phone was ringing. There was a pause before she grabbed it and held it up to her ear with a notable wince.

“Hello? Oh, Myranda, yes, of course.”

Sansa fled the room in an instant, mouthing _sorry_ in lieu of a goodbye. Sandor reached for his own phone. _Please let it be blessed bloody silence until she returns._

“So,” Arya said.

Sandor sighed heavily.

“Do you know who Myranda is?” He asked, cutting off whatever she was going to say.

“Someone from the coffee shop, I think.”

Sandor made a sound of approval. Silence settled between them, a far cry from the comfortable silence that Sandor had become accustomed to with Sansa. He checked his phone. _Huff huff._ Sandor looked down. Stranger had placed his chin on Sandor’s leg, wide eyes begging for pizza.

“One piece,” Sandor said.

He reached out with a piece of pizza crust, but before Stranger could take it, Nymeria was there. Arya’s dog grabbed the pizza from Sandor’s hand and made off with it, taking her prize under the table. Stranger’s tail stopped wagging. Sandor quickly gave another crust to his dog before he could start whining and stole a glance at Lady. She was sitting a little ways off, watching him closely. Sandor held out a third pizza crust and waited. It took a while, but Lady eventually ventured over and took it gently from his hand before returning to her corner.

“That’s interesting,” Arya said quietly.

Sandor made no effort to hide his irritation. 

“What?” He said.

“Nothing,” Arya said, but she continued to watch him.

“Speak plainly, at least. Thought you were above this shit.”

Arya tilted her head, regarding Sandor with open suspicion for several seconds before she shrugged.

“Don’t know what she sees in you,” she said, her nose wrinkling as if truly perplexed. It took Sandor a few moments to realise she was talking about Sansa.

“Nothing,” Sandor said. “She sees nothing in me. This was arranged, remember?”

Arya just shook her head.

“Well yeah,” she said, “But she seems fine. Happy, even.”

_Good,_ Sandor thought, Arya’s words reassuring him. He might not fully understand why she believed this conversation necessary, nor the way Arya was observing him through narrowed eyes, but if Arya thought Sansa was fine, then she was probably fine. Aware he was still being watched for a reaction, Sandor shrugged.

“Good,” he said.

Arya pressed onwards.

“I didn’t expect her to adapt so quickly to married life.”

Well _that_ was an interesting sentence. _Don’t rise to the bait,_ Sandor told himself. _She wants to make her point, she can bloody do so._

“She talks about you a lot,” Arya said.

“What else is she meant to talk about?” Sandor muttered. “She’s stuck living with me. Of course she’d complain.” Still, something about that _hurt._ Things had been going well, he had thought. Sandor told himself the feeling wasn’t important.

“No, no. I mean, everything has to link to you. It’s always, ‘how was work?’ ‘oh, Myranda was weird and Sandor gave me a lift home.’ Or ‘are you free tomorrow?’ ‘Sorry, I’m going out with Sandor.’ Even just ‘How’re you?’. It’s ‘I’m good, Sandor made breakfast’ or ‘S--’”

“Seven hells, I get it,” Sandor snapped. He was furious, and wasn’t sure why, and deeper than that there was fear, simmering under the surface of anger. If Sansa didn’t _complain_ about him, then…. The Elder Brother would tell Sandor to work on identifying his feelings, but he couldn’t do that with Ayra prattling on about Sansa as if she had a point to make, without ever _making the buggering point. How long until Sansa gets bored? How long until she realises I’m no good for her? If she’s not complaining…. If she... Seven buggering hells, won’t Arya_ _be quiet_ _?_

“What do you want from me?”

Arya’s eyes were wide. Sandor hadn’t meant to shout, and Arya had clearly not anticipated his outburst, but _what was she bloody hoping for?_

“I- I don’t know,” she said. “I just….”

Sandor’s jaw was tight. Arya scowled.

“I wanted to thank you, alright? For making her happy.” Her voice was barely louder than a murmur and if not for her words, Sandor would think her angry. “Was decent of you to bring Lady over.”

_"You_ brought her.”

Arya shot him an incredulous look. She shook her head.

“Just keep doing what you’re doing, and I’ve got nothing against you, alright?”

Sandor would have snorted at her attempt to threaten him, but something about her words made him wince.

“What is it?” She was leaning forwards in an instant. _She doesn’t miss anything, does she?_

“Nothing,” Sandor muttered.

“Well clearl--”

“No,” he said. “ _Nothing._ I’m doing nothing. _We’re_ doing nothing.”

It took a few seconds for the meaning of his words to settle. _Speechless for once. Praise the Gods._ It didn’t last long.

“So-”

“We’re taking things slow,” Sandor interrupted, before Arya could speak. _Better to explain the situation on my terms before she can question me._ Arya nodded. She sat back in her chair, relaxed, and Sandor realised for the first time that she too had been tense at the start of their conversation. _Well, perhaps that’s one less person that wants to kill me,_ Sandor thought.

“So you’re what, dating?”

Sandor was saved from answering by Sansa, who walked back into the kitchen. She held up a piece of paper and made a writing gesture in the air with her hand. Sandor stood and handed her a pen from his pocket. She gave him a grateful smile and leaned against the counter.

“Would you mind repeating that one more time?”

Sandor watched as Sansa wrote something down and then disappeared once more. He turned to find Arya staring at him, _of course._ She raised her eyebrows.

“You like her,” she said simply.

_What does that matter?_

“Do you have a point?”

There was a pause. Sandor knew that Arya was watching him closely so he resolutely kept his expression entirely impassive.

“Do you think we can get through another pizza by the time she gets off the phone?” Arya asked.

_Is that it? The end of her questioning?_ Sandor almost smiled.

“I think we can try,” he said.

This time, the silence that settled over them could almost be considered companionable.


	18. Almost Enough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! So, I kind of messed up with the timeline a little. The previous chapter was day 16 of marriage, and this one jumps up to day 25. It doesn’t matter a huge amount, it’s mainly just that it feels a bit jumpy and references events that happen in the gap of days 16-25. The next chapter (Sansa’s POV) will take place over the days 16-25 so I’m essentially posting the chapters backwards, but I hope it works- I’ve edited it so that it should still make sense. It was either this, or wait several more days for a chapter, so I went for posting this.
> 
> The timeline doesn’t matter too much, it’s more just for my own personal satisfaction, knowing that technically this fic has a neat-ish timeline.
> 
> Anyway, we are nearing 10,000 hits, which is just too much for me to think about (in a good way!). Thank you all for your continued support- even though I’m very busy at the moment, this fic is at the top of my priorities because I just love seeing the response from you guys. I hope you enjoy this chapter, and next one is coming hopefully in 2 or 3 days. Let me know what you think :)
> 
> **EDIT: If you're reading this when chapter nineteen has been posted, you could read chapter nineteen first since it occurs chronologically before this one (however, it doesn't matter too much if you don't)**

## Chapter Eighteen: Almost Enough

###  **Sandor**

It was hard to pin down exactly when this all started, but Sandor remembered how he had reacted when Sansa first suggested they spend the rest of the day together. The idea that _she_ would want to be in his presence any longer than was necessary had surprised him, and although it was not an unpleasant surprise, Sandor hadn’t known what to say.

“We should get a car so that you can drive yourself places,” he said. Sansa had frowned at that, but she smoothed her features over almost immediately.

“I’m happy to give you a lift when you need it,” Sandor said quickly. “Somewhere you wanted to go today?”

“I was thinking we might take out the dogs and spend the evening in.”

Sandor nodded, not even bothering to hide his relief. The last week had been draining, to say the least, with Sansa appearing at his work one lunchtime. He had had to introduce her quickly to Brienne, but _of course_ Bronn had heard about her arrival and tried to find her. None of Sandor’s threats had any effect on Bronn, so he had only prevented his friend’s harassment of Sansa by agreeing to meet at the weekend. He fully intended to cancel, but Sansa had been elated, so they went. Sandor had barely seen Sansa after she was dragged away by Margaery at the door, but stolen glances at her throughout the evening told Sandor that she was having a good time.

Then there was the morning after their evening with Bronn and Margaery- a day off work for the both of them. Sandor had slept late, and Sansa had woken up before him for once. He opened his eyes to hear her singing over the sound of the radio and found the covers tucked tightly around him.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Nicest thing I’ve ever woken up to,” Sandor said.

Sansa had smiled at that, dropping her gaze. Sandor had frozen- _fuck, when did I start spouting shit like that?_ \- until she asked if he would like to eat breakfast. Throughout the day Sansa had snuck glances at him. Sandor pretended not to notice, but he was at a loss, with no idea what had put Sansa in such a good mood. It didn't help that she had taken to walking around in more casual clothes. _I want her to feel comfortable, of course I do, and it's not her fault I'm some old creep. But gods, she's stunning._

Now, almost a week later, Sansa wanted to spend the evening together. They took the dogs out first.

“I hope we have kernels somewhere,” Sansa said.

“What for?”

“Popcorn,” Sansa said brightly, as if it was obvious.

“We’ve got microwavable.”

Sansa shook her head.

“Popping it from kernels is half the fun,” she insisted, “I promise you, it tastes better.”

“Have you ever actually tried microwave popcorn?”

There was a pause. Sandor chuckled.

“How about this,” he suggested. “You make yours, I’ll make mine-”

“-and we’ll swap!”

“Sounds good?”

“It sounds perfect.”

Once they were inside and the popcorn was on its way, Sansa disappeared to get dressed. Sandor sighed heavily from his place on the sofa. The entire evening, no, the last three weeks, had been impossible to wrap his head around. _Why is she still pretending? I never thought that she could actually_ _want_ _friendship; why does she maintain our facade in private, though, unless….It’s the evening, she should be…._ Sandor wasn’t sure what else Sansa ought to be doing, but he knew damn well that she shouldn’t want to spend time with him. _And yet she does._

There had to be another explanation, but Sandor’s mind was stuck racing in circles. _She can’t like me, but she’s spending time with me, but why?- she can’t like me, so why are we spending time together? Are we friends? And how much of what she does is choice? She still offers to cook; is her interest genuine, or does she think she has to? She certainly seems to be getting more comfortable around me, but how can she? Can she really not tell that I want her? Does she trust that I won’t do anything? Seven bloody hells, I barely trust myself when she’s near me._

Sandor picked up his glass of water and took a sip. He caught sight of his reflection as he did so.

“Fuck,” he swore quietly. He was nothing compared to Sansa. It was obvious- she must know it. She could manipulate him _so easily._ Sandor stared into the water without moving, the rippling surface doing nothing to calm his nerves.

“Sandor?”

Sansa was so close and quiet that Sandor jumped, his surprise quickly settling into irritation. He nearly dropped the glass, but Sansa’s fingers curled around his own and she took it from his weak grip before it could slip. A little water splashed onto Sandor’s wrist. Sansa took a step away to set down the water, but was back in front of him in an instant.

“Are you well?” Sansa asked. Her brow was creased in confusion. Sandor opened his mouth to snap a reply.

“I'm fine,” he snarled. Something flashed in Sansa's gaze but she didn't back away. She didn't give into the hurt Sandor must be causing, by being his usual harsh self. Instead she took a deep breath and didn't say anything for a long time. Sandor refused to meet her gaze, staring down at the ground, waiting for something, _anything_ to happen . _She ought to rebuff me for snapping at her._

“I'm fine,” he said again. He tried to soften his tone but his voice came out bitter and was more of a growl than actual words. A slight pressure on his arm told Sandor that Sansa was resting her hand there. 

“Good,” she said.

_Good? What's good? None of this is good. None of it makes any fucking sense. If she doesn’t move her hand off me I won’t be able to think._ Sandor snorted. He shook his head. 

“Not _good_ ,” Sansa clarified. “I mean, if you _were_ fine, that would be good, but, um, I suspect that you are not....”

Sandor tensed. He let his gaze travel upwards as Sansa spoke. He needed something to distract him from the way she spoke, her voice soft and melodious and her words a blessing he didn't deserve. 

“Will you let me know if you would like to talk about it?”

“Sure, little bird.” _Like that'll happen._ Sandor's eyes followed the slope of Sansa's leg. “Don't want to _talk_ , though.”

He hadn't meant it like _that_ , hadn't meant to say it at all, but now his mind was in the gutter. Sandor raked his gaze over Sansa, once, twice. If he moved his hands forwards he could encircle Sansa's waist with his fingers. Gods, she looked so utterly domestic in pajama shorts. She was so close, Sandor could reach out and grab her. He would be able to feel the way her smooth skin softened under his touch. Hells, her chest was really not that far from him at all. Eye level, really. A deep need was taking root in Sandor and he might have forgotten himself if not for Sansa's gasp. His eyes snapped up to her in an instant, _shit, fuck, what am I doing?_ Sansa's eyes were wide, her breathing rapid and catching a little in her throat. It only served to bring Sandor's attention where it should not have been, and he noted that her top was clearly old, a size too small, stretched tightly against her chest. _Shit, don't look don't look don't look,_ Sandor thought, forcing his eyes up to Sansa's. _I've made her uncomfortable. Of course I have. What did I expect? I'm leering at her, aren't I, while she's right in front of me. I'm just staring at her and she's.... She's...._

Sandor stopped looking up at Sansa, pushed all imaginings of her discomfort away, and then he _saw_ her _._ He saw how her blue eyes were a little darker than usual, saw the blush that graced her cheeks despite the evening chill. Her lips were parted and as Sandor's gaze swept over them, Sansas tongue darted out. It was such a brief movement that it was barely noticeable, made obvious only from her proximity to him. Had she taken a step forward? Sandor wasn't complaining. Sansa's hand had dropped from his arm, gracing the outside of his thigh instead. To feel her skin against his at night, as she slept... that was one thing. But her touch now, gods, that would be something else altogether, and Sandor wished he wasn't wearing trousers. _At least they're not jeans,_ he thought. He was already barely hanging onto the last shreds of control he had. _What if I just… reached out? Just to touch her._ Sandor’s hand twitched.

A beep brought time crashing back towards them, and Sansa gasped again, taking a step backwards. This time, her eyes were wide with panic, her mouth open in silent surprise. 

“I, um--”

Sandor shrugged, standing up quickly. He moved to the door, giving Sansa a wide berth _just in case I decide to do something stupid._

“That's why microwave popcorn is best,” Sandor said. “It's ready fast.”

He left before another pause could settle over them. _That was close._ When Sansa entered the kitchen, she was noticeably uncomfortable, but she still smiled at Sandor as he held out the bowl of popcorn and offered him hers in response.

“Ready, little bird?”

Sansa nodded, her smile growing a little wider.

“Absolutely.”

Sansa entered their makeshift living room first and sat down. When Sandor hesitated, she patted the seat beside her. _She’ll be on my scarred side then._ His unease must have been obvious, since Sansa bit her lip.

“Oh, only if you’d like,” she said. “I don’t mean to, um, make you feel uncomfortable.”

Sandor had to smile at that, the irony of their situation not lost on him.

“Not uncomfortable,” he said. _Not in the way you mean._ “It’s just you don’t have to. Bad enough to put up with me. You don’t-”

“Sandor,” Sansa said quietly, her voice wavering a little. “Please.”

_Fuck, why does she sound like she’s going to cry?_ Sandor walked over to the sofa and sat down. _To make her happy, though why she wants me on this side I don’t know. It’s dark, the lights are dimmed, it doesn’t matter._ He let Sansa choose the film- Midnight in Paris- and they settled down to watch. Sansa ate her popcorn quickly and set her bowl down on the floor. Sandor held out his bowl and Sansa shuffled closer but didn’t take any more. Instead, she leaned close to him- not quite touching, but close enough to set Sandor on edge.

“I like evenings like this,” she said, her words a soft murmur.

“You used to do this a lot?”

“Not as often as I’d like.” she said. “With my family there were always too many of us to settle down in one place. But sometimes my father managed to get us sitting down for more than a few minutes. He would only use old DVDs, so we watched all the classics.”

“What counts as the classics?”

“I like _It’s a wonderful life,_ ” Sansa said.

“I’ve never seen it,” Sandor admitted.

“ _No,_ truly?”

“Truly,” he echoed, shooting Sansa a smile.

“We’ll have to watch it at Christmas,” Sansa said. “If-”

“If I would like?”

Even in the low light Sandor could see Sansa’s cheeks turning pink. He laughed.

“That’d be nice, little bird.”

“We could have a film night every so often,” Sansa said.

Sandor hesitated. _That sounds like a future plan._

“Yeah,” he finally said. “There’s…. there’s an old theatre downtown that shows old films. it’s one of those places that hasn’t yet sold out to a chain.”

“Oh? It sounds wonderful, “sansa said. “I love hidden places like that. How did you find it?”

There was another pause as Sandor grappled for the right words.

“I… I wanted to go for a drink and couldn’t distract myself so I just started walking. Walked straight past the pub and past all the others, just turning randomly down roads whenever i saw so much as an off-licence. Happened to make it into the cinema and watched the first film they had on.”

“What was the film?”

“The Great Dictator.”

Sansa hummed her approval; the sound made Sandor shiver.

“I’d like to go there,” Sansa said. “Together, I mean.”

“Oh?”

Sandor thought back to the advice Brienne had given him after she met Sansa. _‘She likes you,’_ Brienne had said, _‘As a friend at the very least.’_ Sandor thought about what that meant. _Brienne said Sansa would try to get me to do things with her. But this is about films, not me, isn’t it?_

“I’m sorry,” Sansa said, and Sandor realised he had stayed quiet for far too long. “I know we’ve been spending a lot of time together. I don't mean to-”

“It’d be nice to go there,” Sandor finally said. “What about next week?”

“Wednesday?” Sansa’s response was immediate.

_Wednesday marks one month of marriage. One month exactly. Does she know? Is is a coincidence she chose that day?_

_“_ I don’t think I have a shift then.”

_Yes. A coincidence. That’s fine. Better._

_“_ Yeah,” Sandor said, knowing full well that he had work on Wednesday. “Wednesday is good.”

Wednesday was not good. It was the very opposite of good. _You’d think it wouldn’t be so bloody impossible to get a fucking day off._ Tormund complained bitterly about Sandor taking the time off, claiming that he needed him that day. Sandor came _this close_ to just quitting then and there, and only Brienne’s presence got him through Tormund’s complaints.

“Can’t you do any other day?” Tormund asked.

Sandor hesitated. A day with Sansa wasn’t worth his job. They could reschedule. She would understand.

“Okay,” he said. “I can d-”

“It’s his anniversary,” Brienne muttered from nearby.

“His _what?_ ” Tormund’s head snapped around so fast it was a surprise he didn’t get whiplash.

_“For fucks sake, Brienne,"_ Sandor snapped.

“Is this true?” Tormund asked.

“What does it matter?”

“I’m a little insulted that I don’t know about this,” Tormund said. “What’s Wednesday, how long’s it been? Go on, what’s the plan?”

Sandor set his jaw as tight as possible.

“Ah,” Tormund sighed, seeing that Sandor wasn’t going to answer. “Fine. Enjoy yourself. It's about time you found someone. You can make up the hours elsewhere.”

_If I knew it was that easy, I’d have made up a fake relationship years ago._ When Sandor reached home, he felt strangely light, cooking and setting the table as Sansa showered. He was laying the table when her phone buzzed.

“Phone!” He called, forgetting that she wouldn’t hear him. _Oh, shower._ Sandor noticed that the message was from Myranda. _That’s the girl she works with,_ Sandor remembered. The first line of the message flashed up on Sansa’s phone.

**Myranda:** swapped shifts, wednes free for you now…

The message cut off after that, but Sandor had seen enough to understand what was going on. _Huh, guess she didn’t have Wednesday free after all. So it wasn’t a coincidence; she rescheduled her shift. She rescheduled her shift so she could spend time with me._ Disbelief coloured his thoughts. _Together. On our one month anniversary. No, our fake anniversary. Fake wedding, fake anniversary. This is nothing more than a friendship, and I’m content with that._

“Did you call?”

Sansa had cracked open the bathroom door. Her hair was plastered on her face in damp waves and Sandor could hear the near constant drip of water on the bathroom floor.

“Sorry,” Sandor said. _Don’t imagine her naked, do not imagine her naked, I am not imagini-_ _fuck._

“You didn’t call?”

“Uh, phone. You got a message. It’s probably not important.”

Sansa nodded.

“Oh, good, thank you.”

Then she was gone again after gracing Sandor with another smile. _Yes,_ Sandor thought. _This is more than I deserve, and a lot more than I expected. I don’t need more. Friendship is enough._ But if that was true, how could Sandor explain the feeling that was rising in his chest?


	19. Good for each other

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Thank you so so much for over 10,000 hits, it feels like such a huge number- I had never even aimed for this much because I didn’t realise we would reach it, let alone so quickly! Also thank you very much for your feedback; your comments are always so wonderful to read and reply to. 
> 
> This chapter is a Sansa POV chapter and chronologically takes place before the previous chapter. The next chapter will also be Sansa’s POV, and may or may not involve their monthiversary date; if it doesn’t, it will be in the next one for sure.
> 
> I hope you like this chapter. I’m looking forward to hearing your thoughts. :)

## Chapter Nineteen: Good for each other

###  **Sansa**

Sansa’s phone buzzed as she was about to leave for work.

**Sandor:** forgot to bring lunch today, take it if you’re hungry

Sansa checked the fridge. Sure enough, there was a tupperware there that Sandor hadn’t taken. _I’ve already eaten, so there’s likely time before my shift begins to give this to Sandor._ With a faint smile, Sansa put the tupperware into her bag before leaving. She ducked into her uber.

“Would you mind taking me a little further into town?” Sansa asked the driver.

When she reached his work, Sansa called her husband quickly and told him she was outside. He appeared in an instant and she handed over the food.

“You didn’t need to bring that.”

_It’s only sandwiches,_ Sansa thought. Sandor looked almost perturbed at being handed food, but he recovered quickly, shooting Sansa a small smile.

“I wanted to.”

“You’re not hungry?”

“I ate already, but I have time before my shift to sit together whilst you eat, if you would like?”

“Sorry,” Sandor said, genuine regret lacing his tone. “I’ll have to eat this quickly; busy day. But, uh, you could meet Brienne perhaps? Only if you’d like to.”

“I would love to.”

Brienne turned out to be an extremely tall, strong woman, who would have intimidated Sansa if not for her softly-spoken words and bright eyes.

“Nice to finally meet you,” she smiled.

“You too,” Sansa said.

They shook hands and before long they were talking easily, wandering inside to sit at a slightly rickety table with a hot mug of tea. Sansa briefly wondered if she ought to be inside, since it _was_ a construction site, but Brienne handed her a hard hat to wear as if she had read her thoughts.

“Am I correct in thinking that you have one of Stranger’s siblings?” Sansa asked.

“That’s right,” Brienne said. “Mine’s Nettle- Sandor might have told you.”

Sandor _had_ told her, rolling his eyes at the names of the other two pups.

“I like that name,” Sansa said.

Brienne laughed softly, shaking her head.

“Sandor doesn’t,” she said. “Opposites can be good for each other.”

Sansa remembered that Sandor had told Brienne everything. If there was anyone that might understand their situation, anyone that could give advice, it was Brienne. Clearly, Sandor trusted her. They had dogs from the same litter, they worked together, he had told her everything about their situation….. Actually, the more she reflected on it, the more Sansa realised how close Brienne and Sandor were. _They would be a very well-suited match,_ she thought. _Even their heights are similar._

“I hope you don’t mind me asking; I know it’s terribly forward, but….” Sansa hesitated. “Did you and Sandor ever- were you- perhaps- I only ask because you seem very well suited for each other….” Sansa trailed off, wincing as Brienne’s eyes widened in shock.

“ _No,_ ” Brienne said, “Gosh, no. We’re just friends.”

“Oh good,” Sansa said, her voice laden with relief. “Um, I mean, not good- well, not-”

“Sansa.”

Sansa’s cheeks were aflame. Brienne placed her hand on the table on top of Sansa’s and offered her a soft smile, just a curve of the edges of her lips. She gave a quiet chuckle.

“I apologise,” Sansa said. “It’s not like me to feel jealous. Truly, I didn’t mean to pry.”

“No harm done,” Brienne said. “He’s all yours.”

“Oh,” Sansa said, “Well, you know our situation, so you know- well, yes, we’re friends now. He’s been so good to me.”

Brienne nodded.

“If you need someone to talk to, someone who knows the situation, you can message me at any time.”

“Thank you,” Sansa said. “Truly, that means a lot.”

There was a moment of hesitation.

“I should be going-” Sansa began, as Brienne spoke. “Sansa-”

“Sorry,” Sansa said. “You were going to say?”

“For what it’s worth, you’ve been good to him also.” Brienne continued before Sansa had a moment to protest. “I don’t know if you see it, but he’s more….. mellow. He’s less stressed. What I’m saying is, it seems you’re good for each other.”

Sansa left shortly after that, but her head was spinning all through her afternoon shift, and she barely looked at Sandor that evening, except for the occasional glance. _Reciprocal,_ Sansa thought. _Brienne thinks we are good for each other. Sandor’s closest friend thinks we are good for each other. Sandor’s closest friend, who knows all the details of our situation, thinks that we are good for each other._

When Sansa woke up the next morning she was warm and content, still relishing in the cocoon of was realising she and Sandor had Brienne’s approval. She was glad that Sandor had such a strong friendship, and now she had Brienne’s number to add to her slowly-growing list of contacts. Sansa sighed happily, and reached up to brush her hair off her face, only to realise that it wasn’t _her_ hair at all.

“Oh my gods,” Sansa whispered as she realised her position. Her head was tucked next to Sandors, almost on his shoulder, with the ends of his hair resting on her forehead. His arms encircled her waist in a loose hold, and worst of all- or perhaps best, if the tingles shooting up her spine were anything to go by- their bare legs were tangled together. There was comfort that came with being held like this, but something else, too. Sansa moved one of her legs and Sandor’s arms tightened around her. Her mouth twitched. She couldn’t see his face, but Sandor’s breathing was slow and steady. Sansa raised her hands from where they were crushed between their chests and pushed on Sandor’s chest slightly. His hold loosened and she sighed. _I should move before he wakes up,_ she thought. _It’s not often I wake up before him--_ Another thought struck her. _Do we wake up every day like this?_ She wondered if Sandor lay like this sometimes, just listening to her breathing. _If Brienne is right, and I’m good for him also, then…._ She had not woken up like this before, so if they had been wound together, Sandor must have carefully disentangled them so as not to wake her up. The thought made Sansa smile, and she ran her palm up Sandor’s chest to his shoulder, relishing in the heat of the skin she found there for one more moment before reluctantly pulling away.

When Sandor woke, he found her singing to the radio, and Sansa knew that she likely blushed, though whether it was from embarassment at Sandor's interruption or the sight of him by their bedroom door, she wasn't sure.

"Bronn's trying to get us to come to his house," Sandor said.

"Yes, he mentioned Margaery before, I believe."

"I'll tell him no- unless you'd like to?"

"I would like to meet your friends," Sansa admitted. "Though I do not mind if you think it isn't a good idea."

Sandor had stared at her for a long while before speaking.

"Does the weekend suit?" He asked.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

As they arrived at Bronn and Margaery's home, Sansa looked up at the building. It was a modest, suburban house, with heavy curtains at all the windows. Sansa could have sworn she saw the upstairs curtains twitch a little- _is someone watching us?-_ but then they were standing by the front door, so there was only an instant for Sansa to prepare herself. She took a deep, steadying breath. _I’m not nervous,_ she told herself, _It simply feels important, meeting Sandor’s friends. I will have to be careful not to do anything wrong._ Sansa stood as close as possible to Sandor, leaning into his arm a little.

The door swung open to reveal Bronn, but before he could speak, a woman appeared beside him.She looked to be in her mid-twenties, at once perfectly put together whilst still maintaining an illusion of effortlessness; she wore a long flowing dress cut low at the neckline and kept her hair down, where it settled on her shoulders, framing her open and friendly face. _This is Margaery?_

“You must be Sansa,” she said, “Bronn has told me so much about you.”

Sansa offered Margaery her hand to shake, but it was promptly ignored in favour of a hug, a brief tight squeeze that left Sansa with the smell of roses.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Sansa said. “Is it Margaery?”

“That’s me.” Margaery offered Sansa her hand- well, she grabbed Sansa’s hand in her own- and pulled her into the house. “Come, now, we have so much to talk about.”

Margaery led Sansa through the house quickly and into the kitchen, where she finally stopped, regarding Sansa with a satisfied nod.

“I simply must take you to see our garden, if you don’t mind my mixing of work and pleasure.” 

“Of course not, it would be lovely to see the garden.”

Margaery smirked at that, and Sansa soon found out why. Whilst the house was modest, the garden was spectacular.

“A rose garden,” Sansa said.

“I specialise in handmade bouquets,” Margaery explained. “It’s more of a hobby for now, but I’ll be taking over the family business from my grandmother soon. It’s all terribly boring, truly.”

Sansa walked with Margaery along the gravel paths lined with roses. She suspected that despite her easy chatter, Margaery’s words were calculated.

“So,” Margaery said, breaking the sound of their shoes crunching on gravel, “Sandor….”

Sansa said nothing. _That didn’t take her long. I’ll have to be cautious; Margaery seems intelligent, I will be careful not to let her figure anything out._

“It’s nice to see him with someone,” Margaery continued.

“Yes. We’re…. close friends,” Sansa said.

“Oh, how delightful, you must tell us how you met! How long have you two known each other.?”

“Almost a--” Sansa faltered, pressing her lips closed. _Almost a month,_ she thought wryly. _That will hardly do._ “Quite a while,” she said instead, “But we’ve recently become close.”

“Yes, Bronn did mention that you’re living together.”

“Oh,” Sansa said, trying to prevent her voice from shooting up several octaves, “He did?”

“Are you not living together?”

“We are,” Sansa confirmed. “We are living together. I…. I was moving out of home and my dog might have been lonely alone. She’s used to living with other dogs, her siblings, and she and Stranger get along well, so we moved in.”

Margaery smiled at Sansa’s explanation.

“Her siblings?” She echoed.

“Yes; each of my siblings has a dog from the same litter. Lady is mine.”

Sansa told Margaery about her siblings and their dogs as they continued through the garden.

“Only one sister and all those brothers?” Margaery asked.

“Yes; and Arya’s more of a boy than the rest of them.”

Margaery laughed at that, and linked her arm through Sansa’s.

“I’ve two brothers,” she said. “You can consider _us_ sisters.” 

With a squeeze of her arm Margaery let go, and Sansa found her arm was once again her own. Margaery moved to one of the rose bushes and deftly snapped a stem. She handed the rose to Sansa.

“It’s beautiful,” Sansa said. The rose was a deep, vibrant red. She winced as a thorn made its way into her thumb.

“Ah,” Margaery said with a sly smile, “You must be careful not to forget the thorns.”

_You don’t say,_ Sansa thought wryly, watching the bubble of blood drip down her thumb.

“We’ll find you a plaster for that,” Margaery said.

They turned around and made their way back to the house.

“It must be peculiar living with Sandor,” Margaery said.

_We’re still talking about this?_ Sansa’s hand tightened around the rose stem and she had to put conscious effort into not gripping it too tightly. _More cuts will hardly be helpful._

“How do you mean?” She asked.

“You must forgive my curiosity,” Margaery said. “Sandor is not one to share his inner life easily, so I’m curious about the woman that has successfully infiltrated her way into his life. He and Bronn are close friends, yet we have heard little about you.”

“Of course,” Sansa said, at a complete loss. 

“So, how is it? Which of you cooks?” Margaery asked.

“We take it in turns, usually,” Sansa said. Before Margaery could ask another question, she continued, “Did you meet Sandor through Bronn?”

“I did,” Margaery said. “And how did you meet?”

“It was a chance meeting,” Sansa said honestly.

Margaery gave her a long look before shaking her head.

“How are you finding living together?”

“It’s a change,” Sansa said. “But I do love it.”

“Moving in with Bronn was certainly a change for me too. Or Bronn moving in with me, I should say.”

“Oh?”

“Small things, you know how it is, I’m sure. Bronn sleeps in; I’m up early.”

“Oh, Sandor tends to get up first,” Sansa offered.

“That doesn’t wake you up? I would imagine he takes up a lot of the bed.”

“Actually, he doesn’t- if anything, I’m the one that takes up the most space-”

Sansa broke off abruptly. _How did she manage to manipulate me into- oh gods, the only thing I needed to do was ensure that I didn’t reveal the truth about our situation and now I have made it appear that we share a bed. We_ _do_ _share a bed, but that is not the point._ Sansa felt herself pale, the autumn sun doing nothing more than shedding light on her features, all shaped into surprise at her own stupidity. Margaery frowned. Sansa avoided her gaze.

“Sansa,” Margaery said, her voice a little softer than before. “It really is so obvious, you would do better not to hide it at all.”

“It was not my intention to- to-” Sansa sighed heavily.

“I won’t tell anyone,” Margaery said, with a little hurt in her voice. “I only meant that it is rather apparent that you are trying to hide what is so obvious. But I do understand.”

“I could not ask you to keep it from Bronn. Sandor and I, we- well, we haven’t-” Sansa wasn’t sure what she was trying to say. _We haven’t told people? We haven’t done anything? We haven’t…._

“I’ve been with Bronn for years,” Margaery said. “I still don’t like to call us a couple. It’s too…. too much. There’s a lot that comes with that, and none of it is what I want. But we operate as two people, in what I understand you could call a relationship. I know it is not ordinary…”

“No one seems to be ordinary,” Sansa said.

“Exactly. I’m glad to have reached an understanding.”

Sansa met Margaery’s smile with her own.

“Every couple does things differently,” Margaery said, pushing open the door to the kitchen. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out in your own time. Now, I’ll run upstairs and find you a plaster for your hand.”

When Margaery returned Sansa was watching Sandor and Bronn through the glass kitchen door, a faint smile on her face.

“Sansa?”

“Oh!” She turned around, slightly embarrassed- even more so when Margaery grinned at her reaction.

“I apologise for the state of the kitchen,” Margaery said, once Sansa’s thumb was bandaged. “I’m redecorating at the moment.”

Sansa surveyed the kitchen and its marble countertops, searching for an area that could possibly warrant redecorating.

“What are you planning to change?” She asked, upon finding nothing.

“I’ll make some new curtains first,” Margaery said. “After that, I’m not sure.”

“You’ll make curtains?” Sansa echoed. “Do you sew?”

“I do; my grandmother taught me.”

It wasn’t long before they were sitting together discussing various sewing projects they were considering.

“I’d rather like to make clothes for Sandor,” Sansa blurted.

Margaery just smiled.

“You must tell me if you need any help,” she said. “Here, take my number.”

Soon, they were scrolling through different prints online.

By the time they left the house, Sansa was buzzing with ideas. She watched Sandor as they walked to the motorbike. _He looks rather wonderful in blue,_ Sansa decided. 

“Margaery thinks we’re dating,” Sansa said to Sandor. “I didn’t mean for her to think that. She said she wouldn’t tell Bronn, though.”

“It’s fine,” Sandor said. “You, uh, you didn’t correct her?”

“No,” Sansa said, realising for the first time that she had never thought to do so. “It didn’t cross my mind.”


	20. Ready

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, I hope you’re all doing well. I’ve got a couple of very stressful weeks coming up but for now my writing schedule is on track :) Thank you for reading; we have over 450 kudos now- that number has been creeping up, so that’s super exciting- thank you so much!
> 
> This is a bit of a filler chapter; I wanted to explore the last few days from Sansa’s POV as well as how she’s feeling about their upcoming definitely-not-a-date. The next two chapters will be the monthiversary day from both of their POVs (different events in each so it isn’t too repetitive)- Sandor’s is first.
> 
> I hope you enjoy the chapter and I look forward to hearing your thoughts :)

## Chapter Twenty: Ready

###  **Sansa**

_Tomorrow,_ Sansa thought. _Tomorrow marks one month exactly since our wedding day. One entire month. And we’re to go out. Together. We’re to go out_ _ together, _ _like a couple. Does this count as a date? Neither of us have mentioned that it is our one month anniversary….. A date…._ Sansa bit her lip, her mind fleeing back to the evening that they had watched a film together, the same evening when…. She took a deep breath and tried to remember how it had been. _Perhaps I imagined it,_ Sansa thought. _No; that was no mere glance. That was…. something entirely new._

The evening had gone normally until just before they watched the film. Sansa had suggested spending time together and Sandor had been surprised, as usual, despite the fact that they spent most of their evenings together now. Sansa wondered if his surprise would ever stop. _Of course I want to spend time with him,_ she thought. _He is my husband; and more than that, he is my friend._ But when she had gone into their living room she had found Sandor staring at a glass of water like it had given him some terrible news. A little confused, Sansa crept up to him, waiting for him to look up. There was never any point trying to move quietly around him, she had learnt- Sandor always sensed her arrival. Except that this time he did not, not even when she stood right in front of him, her shadow acting as his shroud.

“Sandor?”

Sandor startled, his fingers slipping on the glass. Sansa took hold of it quickly and set it down before returning. Sandor avoided her gaze, looking entirely ill at ease.

“Are you well?” Sansa asked. 

Sandor frowned.

“I’m fine,” he said. His voice was sharp and Sansa reflexively wanted to flinch away, but she realised that his voice was heavy too. _What is bringing him down?_ She took a steadying breath and placed her hand on his arm, the only gesture of comfort she thought he might not object to.

“I'm fine,” Sandor said again. The words were little more than a dark murmur, and Sansa felt entirely useless. _I have to say_ _ something. _

“Good,” Sansa said. She felt ridiculous, a feeling that only increased when Sandor shook his head.

“Not _good_ ,” she clarified. “I mean, if you _were_ fine, that would be good, but, um, I suspect that you are not....”

Sandor’s arm tensed under Sansa’s grip.

“I do not know what causes you distress,” Sansa said, “But will you let me know if you would like to talk about it?”

“Sure, little bird.” Sandor’s eyes had lifted from the ground to rest on Sansa’s bare legs. “Don't want to _talk_ , though.”

For a few seconds Sansa was shocked into silence, her mind replaying those words. _Don’t want to_ _talk_ _, though._ Sandor’s voice was still rough, but entirely altered, an edge to it that was dangerously suggestive. Despite his words, however, Sandor did not move. His eyes raked across her body, taking her in, and Sansa knew what he saw- her legs, bare save for the pajama shorts that covered little more than the tops of her thighs. Sansa realised her hand was still resting on Sandor's arm. She did not move it away. 

_What am I meant to do?_ Sansa wondered. The thought was closely followed by _what do I want to do? _ She knew that the something in the air seemed to send a shiver down her spine, setting her on edge. She knew also that it was not an entirely unpleasant experience. But it was when Sandor raised his eyes to meet hers that the full force of what she was feeling hit Sansa. There was a lot that should have perturbed her: Sandor was staring at her with undeniable hunger in his eyes, and he was so very close... _He lusts for me,_ Sansa realised, looking at his hooded gaze. But it was not _that_ realisation that panicked Sansa. No, it was the fact that, as their eyes locked, she realised she may very well be feeling the same way. 

Any number of things could have happened in that moment, and Sansa could not begin to name even one of them. She only knew that she would not object. She knew the implications, the consequences. She knew that if anything happened, their relationship would be changed, their friendship compromised. But Sansa would have been reckless at that moment. Her intrigue punctuated her uncertainty; she appreciated the feel of Sandor’s body, however it was- their legs intertwined in sleep, or her hand on his arms as it was now. Still, it was one thing to want him, and another altogether to vocalise that, to understand what that truly meant.

A spike of anxiety slowly built, hidden by interest, that Sansa was unable to explain as she stood trapped by Sandor’s gaze. It had never been more obvious that he wanted her, yet Sansa was not afraid, for he did not move. He did not move _at all_. It had to have taken effort to remain so still, since Sansa was trying her hardest, and had unconsciously shuffled forwards, her fingers brushing the muscle of his leg. It was not enough, not quite enough for her, and she wanted to look at Sandor as he was staring at her. _I suppose I already am,_ she thought. Her stomach twisted with that peculiar mixture of nerves and interest.

Sansa let her gaze trail over Sandor, rather enjoying that she had the higher vantage point for once. She could see the strength of his arms, _arms that encircled me as I slept,_ and knew there was muscle hidden by his t-shirt. Everything screamed strength, and yet he was in nothing more than a t-shirt and loose tracksuit trousers. And he was sitting down, relaxed, resting his forearms on his legs. Evenings like this, Sansa felt, were altogether reflective of domestic life she had always hoped for. _Viewing him as this, as both Sandor and as a man, it is almost enough that I might pretend we are husband and wife in truth._ Sansa was past the point of warmth. She flexed her fingers, tightening her grip on Sandor’s leg, and knew that her cheeks must be bright red. ' _Don’t want to_ _talk_ _, though.' And what about me? What do_ _I_ _want?_

A beep shook Sansa from any revelations she might have had and she gasped, taking a step backwards. _What did I just do?_

“I, um--”

Sandor just shrugged, standing up quickly. He moved to the door, making an obvious point to go around the coffee table so as not to walk too near to Sansa. _Did I get ahead of myself?_ Sansa wondered. _He surely wanted me then, and did he not say he desired me when we agreed to a friendship?_ She followed Sandor into the kitchen and the moment from before was gone. _I ought to be thankful._ Sandor called her _little bird_ and Sansa relaxed once more, realising that he was not angry at how she had acted. _Nothing happened,_ Sansa realised later, as she reflected on the moment. _Did I imagine Sandor’s hand moving just before the microwave went off? I must have done._

Sansa entered their living room first with the popcorn, sitting down and patting the seat beside her so that Sandor might sit on her right side. He hesitated, and she tried not to frown. _Why is he so reluctant to sit on this side?_ She had noticed it before; whenever they walked anywhere, Sandor did his best to be on her left, so that his scars were hidden from her. Now, as he paused, regarding her as if she was a threat, she could feel herself growing emotional.

“Oh, only if you’d like,” Sansa said. “I don’t mean to, um, make you feel uncomfortable.”

Sandor offered her a wry smile.

“Not uncomfortable,” he said. “It’s just you don’t have to. Bad enough to put up with me. You don’t-”

“Sandor,” Sansa said. She tried to speak firmly, tried to inject some strength into her voice that would shout to him what he surely must already know: _I want to spend time with you; I want to know you, and that means all of you._ Gods, did he truly not know how little she was bothered by his appearance? _If anything, it makes him more intriguing to look at. It makes him….._

“Please,” Sansa said, as softly as she could. _If I speak any louder, I may cry, and that would hardly help the situation._ Sansa had a feeling that any words she tried to say would come out wrong, but to say nothing was to leave Sandor in the dark about how she felt.

Sandor sat down, and Sansa put on the film, choosing Midnight in Paris- she had never seen it before, and struggled to concentrate, finding herself oddly distracted by Sandor’s presence by her side. She was unused to him just _there._ This was different to before- usually, they were together on the motorbike, or when they were eating. _Those had purpose,_ Sansa realised. _The only times we’re near each other without purpose……_ It was almost like being in bed, Sansa realised, with the dim lights, the stoic man beside her, the faint weariness that came after a long day. The darkness of the room sent her mind racing towards the memory of waking up together, of their legs touching, and the coarse hair on his. Sansa ate quickly to distract herself and set her popcorn bowl down before nerves got the better of her. Sandor offered her some of his popcorn and she almost laughed.  _That’s_ _not what I want._

They sat closely for the rest of the film, and Sandor did not move away, so Sansa took that to mean that the evening was successful; if Sandor had not been content, she knew he would have not hesitated to move. _It is nice to think that he may enjoy my company as much as I enjoy his,_ Sansa thought, reflecting on that evening. _It means a lot that he shared his story about the cinema, too, and even more that he is taking me there tomorrow. Oh gods, it’s happening tomorrow._ Nerves tugged at Sansa’s stomach and she frowned.

“Sansa? _Sansa!_ ”

“Oh, I apologise--” Sansa began.

“You’re distracted today,” Myranda remarked. “I’ve said your name a hundred times.”

“Oh, I’m sorry-”

“Whatever. Just tell me what’s got you so on edge.”

Sansa glanced at Myranda, who raised her eyebrows.

“I’m a little nervous for tomorrow,” Sansa admitted.

“What’s happening? I assume this is why you asked to swap your shift?”

“I think I’m going on a date. To be technical, it is not a _date,_ but a…..” She frowned.

“Well what’re you going to do?”

“We’re going to see a film,” Sansa said. If nothing else, at least she knew that.

“And you took the entire day off for _that_?” Myranda sounded unimpressed. “Come on, what else? I know what you’re like- you won’t fuck him, so-”

“I don’t know,” Sansa said, her forehead creasing in thought. She bit her lip. _Myranda’s right. There’s almost no structure, almost no plan. Are we to spend the rest of the day as normal? Sandor has suggested the film; am I to arrange something else?_

“ _Sansa!_ ”

“I’m sorry,” Sansa said, her apology little more than reflexive. “I don’t know what we’re going to do. Perhaps I ought to arrange something more.”

Myranda regarded her with a dangerous smile.

“Let _him_ do that,” she said. “Now what makes it a date?”

_‘It’s the anniversary of our marriage’_ would be the truth, but hardly a suitable response. _We are just friends,_ Sansa thought, _but there is clearly something more. The way he looked at me was undeniable, and Brienne believes us a suitable match, and…. Well, I suppose I looked at him in a similar manner._

“Myranda,” Sansa said instead, “Do you ever lose track of time when you're with someone?”

“I'm sure you don't mean that in the way I'm imagining,” Myranda said wryly. 

“No, I expect not,”

“What _do_ you mean? I know when I’m having a good-”

“No, no, we weren’t doing anything.”

“Nothing?”

Sansa thought back to the moment they had shared.

“I was looking at him,” she finally said.

“You were checking him out,” Myranda corrected.

Sansa opened her mouth to deny it but realised that she could not.

“Gods,” she said. “You’re right.”

Myranda grinned.

“No need to look so horrified,” she said. “I’m excited to meet him.”

Sansa could not think of anything worse.

“No,” she said, without thinking. “He, um, he….”

“If I’m giving you relationship advice, I ought to meet him,” Myranda reasoned.

“Well- I- he’s very-”

“Attractive?”

“-busy.”

Their conversion was thankfully interrupted by a customer. Sansa sagged against the wall, glad to have a momentary reprieve from Myranda.

“What’re you going to wear, then?” Myranda asked when she returned.

_That’s actually a reasonable question,_ Sansa thought, not without surprise.

“I’m not sure,” she said. “Probably a dress. Boots too, now that it’s getting colder.”

Myranda looked thoroughly unimpressed.

“Yes, yes,” she said, with a dismissive wave of her hand, as if they had already agreed upon that. “And the rest?”

“The rest?” Sansa echoed. "A jacket, or a cardi-"

“What are you going to wear _underneath_?” Myranda asked. Her smile showed a glimmer of bright teeth.

Sansa’s mouth fell open. She snapped it shut quickly, but not quickly enough to stop Myranda from laughing at her. _I ought to be used to this,_ Sansa thought with a sigh, knowing that her cheeks would soon be aflame.

“I will wear what I usually wear,” Sansa said. “And I absolutely will not be talking about that.”

To her credit, Myranda did not push her for details, but she _did_ share an unnecessary amount of detail about what _she_ would be wearing if she were Sansa.

“What I’m saying,” Myranda said, after describing her favourite sets of lingerie, “Is that you’ve got to surprise him. Wear something you wouldn’t usually.”

Sansa knew she was still talking about lingerie, but the general point was not entirely ridiculous.

“Thank you,” Sansa said, and then, before she lost her brief spike of confidence, “Would you be alright with me taking my lunch break now?”

Myranda gave her a knowing look and nodded. Sansa sent a text to Sandor to say that she did not have time to meet for lunch, feeling tremendously guilty as she did so. Then she snuck away to a department store, feeling utterly foolish. She wandered the rails quickly and settled on a lavender dress far shorter than she would usually buy. As she left, Sansa tucked the receipt into her purse. _I do not have to wear it,_ she decided. _In fact, I very likely will not._

Yet when she found herself getting ready the next day, Sansa was unable to push the dress from her mind. She was wearing the shirt Sandor had worn to the wedding, as she often did when she was alone, and she stared blankly into their wardrobe. _Sandor has seen me in most of these outfits already,_ she thought. _Surprise him, Myranda said. Well, this new dress will certainly do that; it’s surprised me, so no doubt Sandor will be surprised also. Whatever I wear, it is only for a day. A change could be good for me. _With a heavy sigh, Sansa retrieved the dress from the corner of the wardrobe that she had tossed it into and tried it on. The colour was a soft, pale lavender, and Sansa liked the buttons down the front, but the neckline was daring, and the length…...

_My mother would be thoroughly unimpressed with my outfit,_ Sansa thought, turning quickly in the mirror. The outfit was hardly scandalous, but it was also a far cry from Sansa’s usual cut-just-above-the-knee dress. Sansa turned around for what must have been the hundredth time to check- _yes,_ the dress _did_ cover her at the back. Still, even with knee high boots, there was a sliver of her leg left bare. Sansa frowned at herself in the mirror. _Will Sandor tell me if he hates it? Oh, what does it matter? He has seen me in everything from pajamas from a wedding dress._ Thinking about Sandor, rather than her clothes, put Sansa at ease. _No matter what I am wearing, I will be spending the day with him._ That, at least, was a constant that she had no desire to change.

_Well,_ Sansa thought. _I would not endeavour lose him. But perhaps…._ It unnerved her to even consider the prospect, but Sansa could not deny that below the nerves, excitement sent her skin buzzing at the prospect of truly dating Sandor. _If he views this as a date,_ she decided, _I believe I could be ready for that._ Sansa turned away from the mirror with a smile as Sandor knocked on their bedroom door.

“Sansa?” He asked. “You nearly ready?”

“Yes,” Sansa said, opening the door and meeting Sandor’s gaze with her own. “I’m ready.”


	21. Touch (part one)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, and thank you for reading! We’re at 60 bookmarks (including the private ones), so that’s really exciting! I’m still reeling over the fact that we’re over 10,000 views; thank you all so much!
> 
> Today we have the long-awaited one month anniversary chapter from Sandor’s POV- part one. I know it’s an odd title, but touch is so crucial to this chapter as well as to Sandor as a character in this fic, and I thought “the date” or “one month” was a little too boring. I split this chapter in two because it was getting long and editing took longer than I expected; part two will be up today, perhaps by the time you finish this chapter. It continues straight on, Sandor’s POV again :)
> 
> Thank you all so much for your support. I really hope you like the chapter :)

## Chapter Twenty-One: Touch (part one)

###  **Sandor**

Sandor woke up with a familiar crick in his neck- he knew that it meant Sansa was lying almost on top of him. He seemed to angle his face close to her in sleep, so he woke up breathing in her scent, bright and fresh and _oh gods her body is so soft_ . He shrugged her off as gently as he was able, drawing the covers up to her shoulders before leaving their bedroom and entering the kitchen with purpose. _If I approach this objectively,_ Sandor thought, _Then this is entirely fine. I’m cooking. Easy. I don’t want to wake Sansa. Easy. I’ll cook quietly. Easy._ As it turned out, however, moving quietly in the kitchen whilst half asleep, with dopey Stranger underfoot and Lady observing from the corner was harder than Sandor had expected. 

He almost dropped the pan twice just whilst moving it from the cupboard to the hob, and even the kettle boiling seemed to make too much noise. He winced at the angry hiss of the water as he poured it into the kettle. _More water than for usual rice,_ he read from the recipe on the website he had found. _This will let the rice become sticky. Alright,_ Sandor thought. _Two cups of rice should be enough for us both._ The instructions on the packet were painfully vague, and the instructions online were far too complex. Sansa would probably know what to do, but for some reason Sandor had decided not to tell her his idea. _It’s not a big deal,_ he thought. _She said she liked sushi, so we can make it together. No big deal. If she changes her mind, we’ll have rice with… something else._

Sandor carefully lifted out his bag of shopping; he had stashed it in the corner of the cupboard last week and bought the final ingredients the day before during his lunch break. The bottles clinked together in the bag and Sandor cursed the sound, cursed the tiny writing on the labels, and cursed himself for thinking that this was ever a good idea. Once the rice was in the pan and he had the vinegar ready, Sandor tried to figure out the next step. _Add 80ml of sushi vinegar, or about 12% of the total cooked rice weight, to the rice,_ he read. _For the best flavour, it needs to be folded into the rice whilst still warm._ Sandor shook his head. _Bugger that,_ he thought, pouring in some vinegar without measuring. Before his mother had died, her attempts to teach him to cook had always been called out as they were in the kitchen- ‘a dash of this’ or ‘just a bit’ or ‘not too much’, and Sandor had used those rough methods since. He still held a vague memory of his mother laughing as he had tried in vain to scribble down some of her instructions. ‘Sandor,’ she had smiled, ‘You need to feel it, learn through practice.’ ‘But I won’t remember,’ Sandor had protested. His mother had kissed his forehead and told him that he would know he could cook when he wasn’t _trying_ to remember. Sandor hadn’t understood that, but he had nodded anyway- he was just happy to see his mother happy, old enough to notice that her smile would fade with the front door slamming, but not old enough to realise what that meant.

Sandor didn’t realise he was lost in thought until Stranger nudged him gently, offering him a _huff_ as if to ask what was the matter.

“Nothing,” Sandor muttered, crouching down to give the mutt a pat. _At least Stranger won’t comment on my shaking hands._ “Ready for a walk?”

Sandor decided to let Sansa sleep in, so he took the dogs out on their usual route around the neighbouring fields and then returned home. When he crept past the bedroom, light shone through the cracks of the door. Sansa was awake. Sandor knocked once on the door and crept in.

“Sans--”

The words died in his throat as he looked at her. Sansa was facing their wardrobe with her back to him, nodding to whatever was playing through her earphones. But that wasn’t what shocked Sandor. _What is she bloody wearing? Is that one of my shirts?_ Sandor squinted at her. _That looks like one of my dress shirts- no, that looks like-_ _fuck._ He backed out of the bedroom and shut the door, staring at the patterns of the wood as if they could help him forget. _That was the shirt I wore a month ago to our wedding,_ Sandor thought. _And she’s wearing it like a dress._ The shirt fell midway down her thighs and Sandor tried to scrub the image from his brain. _Gods, I should not have seen that. Why would she be wearing that shirt?_

Sandor’s phone buzzed and he pulled it out, grateful for the distraction. It was the Elder Brother, replying to the panicked text that Sandor had sent him the day before. _I’m spending the day with her,_ Sandor had written. He knew that the Elder Brother would know who he meant, and sure enough, he had replied quickly and with his usual calm manner.

**EB:** Remain calm and try not to expect the worst. Do what feels right and I’m sure you’ll have a great time on your date.

Sandor sighed, resisting the urge to deny that it was not a date. _We’re only spending the day together,_ he thought, _Just as we do almost every weekend. This is no different._ But of course, not every day was their bloody one month anniversary, and Sandor _knew_ that Sansa had changed her shift for this. _I’m a buggering fool,_ he thought, because of course he had gone and done the same. Sandor almost thought for half a second that everything would be easier without the pretence; _but what would I say? I know you changed your shift? I know it’s been a month? That’s stupid; she knows it too. I’ve got no point to make._ Sure, their attraction _seemed_ mutual, but Sandor could be mistaken, letting his fantastical ideas slip into the way he interpreted their interactions. _Besides, even if it_ _is_ _mutual, if Sansa’s not going to act on it, I won’t either._

Sandor gave Sansa a few more minutes to get ready before he knocked on their bedroom door.

“Sansa?” He asked. “You nearly ready?”

“Yes,” Sansa called. She opened the door. “I’m ready.”

It took several long seconds for Sandor to remember how to move. He knew that he was ogling her, but was utterly unable to stop. Her dress was simply designed, pale purple with a button down front, but it was the neckline that drew Sandor’s attention; it dipped lower than her usual style, low enough to reveal the slope of Sansa’s breasts, and resting atop them was her wedding ring, strung on a necklace chain. Sansa was wearing her hair loose and it flowed free in bright waves against her pale skin, skin that Sandor could see entirely too much of.

“Fuck,” Sandor muttered, his gaze dipping lower.

The dress was short, too, and Sansa was wearing the most incredible pair of boots Sandor had ever seen, a soft velvet grey that reached just above her knees. A significant portion of Sansa’s legs were visible between the top of her boots and bottom of her dress.

“Legs,” Sandor said. “I like your legs- uh, boots- I like them. Outfit in general.” He took a deep breath, well aware that he was making a right fool of himself. “You look good,” he mumbled.

Sansa made no attempt to hide her smile.

“Thank you,” she said, her hand snaking up to her necklace. “You look lovely as well.” She spoke without a trace of sarcasm, and Sandor almost laughed. _I won’t mock her courtesies today,_ he decided, though the idea of going outside with Sansa looking like _that_ was sending panic flooding his veins. He wanted to ruin this; _it would be so very easy,_ he thought, _so safe and ordinary to push her away._ But the blue of her eyes wouldn’t let him pull away, and Sandor’s hand found its way to his pocket, where he kept his own wedding ring.

“Where are we going?” Sansa asked. "To the cinema?”

“Yeah. I wasn’t sure what you’d wear,” Sandor said. “You be okay on the bike in that?”

“Oh, I thought about that so I wore shorts underneath,” Sansa said. One of her hands started to trail down to the hem of the dress as if she was about to _show him_ the shorts, so Sandor turned away quickly. It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen her legs before- most nights she wore pajama shorts, after all. But there was something different about Sansa in pajamas, domestic in the low evening light. She was beautiful, certainly, but _this_ Sansa- Sansa in the daylight, Sansa in knee-high boots, Sansa lifting up her dress to show him her shorts- _this_ Sansa might just push him over the edge, Sandor thought, especially when he was already running on pure nerves.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

By the time they reached the cinema Sandor had almost calmed himself down; Sansa's grasp on his waist was as tight as ever, but at least he couldn't see her. As soon as he got off the bike, however, he saw her again, and realised that _no, that outfit does not just exist in my imagination._ He watched Sansa closely as they reached the cinema, as she took it all in: the sign that had once read _picture palace_ only served to draw attention to the age of the place with all of the missing letters. Peeling paint lined the doorframe, and the inside wasn’t much better. They had kept the old ticket booth, and with it, innumerable stains on the surface of the counter. The woman at the booth knew Sandor, so there was at least that blessing- the look she gave him held far less horror than the stares strangers usually offered. Instead, she watched Sansa with undeniable curiosity. Sansa started chatting to her as they waited for their popcorn, and Sandor could have sworn there was a smirk in the woman’s voice as she called out “Enjoy”. But there was no time to dwell on that, because they had made it to their screen, and then their row, and Sandor paused. 

_Remain calm,_ the Elder Brother had said.

“Where do you want to sit?” Sandor asked Sansa, trying to keep his voice casual.

“I don’t mind,” she said.

Sandor frowned. _What was all that shit last week about wanting to sit on my scarred side? Has she finally come to her senses now?_ When Sansa moved, it was not to sit down, as Sandor had expected. Instead, she took several steps towards him and looked up, trapping him with the intensity of her gaze. She was taller than usual; _her boots must have heels._

“I ought to explain,” Sansa said. She spoke with quiet confidence, “I mean to say, I do not mind either side of you. I like you, all of you, and all the parts of yourself you do not like… well, I do wish that you _did_ like them, because together they make you Sandor.”

For the second time that day, Sansa had rendered Sandor immobile. He wanted to rebuff what she had said, desperate to rebuke the possibility that what she said might be the truth. It was far too overwhelming, far too terrifying to consider. _Perhaps she is only being nice,_ Sandor thought, and that was an unsettling prospect too, but a lot less unsettling than the idea that Sansa might truly not find his appearance as terrifying as others did. She seemed to be waiting for him to say something, or to move perhaps, so Sandor cleared his throat.

“Alright,” he finally said. “Sure.”

He sat to the right of Sansa so that his scars faced her.

Throughout the film, Sandor watched Sansa, barely paying attention to what was on screen. Previously, Sandor had never understood why couples went to the cinema together- it was always dark, and you couldn’t talk, so how was it any different to going alone? Now he understood. Not that they were a couple, of course. It was entirely different watching a film with Sansa, and at one point she laughed so suddenly that he jumped, sending her gaze over to him. She grinned at him, an utterly content, lazy grin, and Sandor felt his lips quirk upwards in response. _Gods, it’s bloody nice to see her like this._

_Do we have to wait until next month to do this again?_

Sandor felt Sansa's bare arm brush against his and he instinctively moved his arm away a little, to give her space on the armrest. But before he could drop his arm, Sansa had slipped hers over his, and her fingers brushed his palm. Sandor struggled to keep his breathing steady. _Is she trying to hold my hand? When did she take off her cardigan?_ Sandor tried to relax. _Do what feels right,_ the Elder Brother had suggested. Sandor relaxed his arm and uncurled his fingers. Sansa settled her hand next to his, her fingers slotting into the gaps between his. She gave his hand a gentle squeeze and Sandor realised his grip was still slack so he returned the gesture, enjoying the heat and pressure of Sansa’s skin.

Sandor ran his thumb over Sansa's, as if solely by touch he could learn to recognise the little ridges of her skin. He failed to realise how calm he was, too absorbed by the smoothness of Sansa's hands, so little and so gentle against his. He didn’t notice that he smiled every time Sansa laughed, or that during the tense moments of the film his heart rate shot up as she grasped his hand tightly. At one point, Sansa twisted up towards him and whispered something. Sandor was overwhelmed by their proximity, and the weight of her hair on his shoulder. _If I turned my head a little we’d be kissing._

“I bet those two end up together,” Sansa whispered to him.

Then she was gone, her head angled very slightly in his direction so that Sandor knew she was waiting for a response. A dreadful thought struck Sandor and he acted upon it before he could think better.

“Didn’t hear that,” he said to her. _No way will this work._ Yet it did. Sansa turned and whispered to him again.

“I think those two will end up together,” she said, nodding at the screen.

Sandor bit back his smile and simply nodded in agreement.

At the end of the film Sansa let go of his hand to shrug on her cardigan. As they left, she started to chatter about the film, taking Sandor’s hand once they were through the narrow door. Sandor was shocked into silence, staring at their hands in the daylight.

“Oh,” Sansa said, realising Sandor’s shock. “If this-”

“This is fine,” Sandor said quickly, surprised at how rough his voice sounded.

“Sorry,” Sansa said, as they began to walk again. “I haven’t yet asked; did you enjoy the film?”

“I was a little distracted," Sandor admitted. "But yes, I had a good time.”

Sansa only let go of Sandor’s hand when they reached the bike, and then her hands were around his waist again. Sandor wondered if it was possible to get drunk from another person’s touch. When they reached home, the dogs were ready to greet them by the door, and Sandor watched as Sansa alternated her pats between Stranger and Lady.

“Lunch?” He suggested.

“Do you have anything in mind?”

“Uh yeah, actually. How does sushi sound?”

Sansa’s expression morphed into surprise.

“I made rice.” Sandor continued before he lost his nerve. “But we can always save that and have it with something else another time if you want, I don’t mind.” He took a deep breath, unused to speaking so much in one go.

“Did you- you bought- did-”

“I got the seaweed and the uh, soy sauce, a couple things to go inside. Not that much.”

“ _Gods,_ Sandor!” Sansa exclaimed, as he took everything out of the fridge. “And you did all of this without me knowing.” She shook her head, her hand gracing his arm in a whisper of thanks. “I can’t wait,” she said.

“Right,” Sandor said, a little unnerved by the way she was looking at him. “Uh, should probably tie your hair up,”

“Oh, yes.”

“I’ll get a tie,” Sandor muttered. He was anxious to move, his nervousness doubling now that Sansa was at home.

“Could you grab my slippers too?” Sansa called.

_Does that mean she’s going to take off the boots?_

By the time Sandor returned with a hair tie and slippers in hand, Sansa had arranged everything on the kitchen island and was surveying it with appreciation.

“Here,” Sandor said, avoiding looking at Sansa until she had her slippers on- not that there was any point; her slippers only came up to her ankles, so now most of her legs were bare, painfully close to Sandor. _Fuck,_ he thought, as she laid seaweed on the sushi mat, _She’ll be the bloody death of me. Oh Gods, how obvious is it that I can’t tear my eyes from her?_ It wasn’t just her legs, either. Everything about Sansa seemed to glow, from her easy smile to the soft creases around her eyes.

“Want me to do your hair?”

The words had escaped his mouth before he thought them, and Sansa replied equally as fast with a simple,

“Yes. And- wait one moment-”

She disappeared into their bedroom and returned brandishing another hair tie.

“-I’ll do yours as well,” she finished.

“I don’t--” Sandor started. He knew he was being ridiculous, but _my hair is all I have to cover my scars._ Sansa stood in front of him.

“You don’t…..?”

“You first,” Sandor said instead. Sansa turned around, and Sandor refused to let his gaze stray too low, keeping his eyes on her hair and nothing else. It was soft and relatively tangle-free, and yet he worked slowly, relishing in the feel of it against his hands. Sansa didn’t complain; she barely seemed to breathe until he was finished.

“Done,” Sandor said.

Sansa felt behind her head and raised her eyebrows.

“You plaited it,” she said, almost accusatory. “How-”

“Ellie,” Sandor said, by way of explanation.

Sansa nodded, a wicked smile spreading across her face.

“Your turn,” she said.

Sandor turned around. _How exactly does she plan to reach me?_ Sansa laughed. Her breath tickled Sandor’s ear as she tried to reach him, and he surmised that she was rising up onto her tiptoes and bracing herself against him, if the gentle caress on his back was anything to go by. Sansa’s fingers running through his hair could have kept Sandor enthralled for hours, but they were gone in mere seconds, leaving his head tingling and his mind slow.

“All done. Let’s get started,” Sansa said.

She moved with a natural grace as if she was entirely accustomed to their little kitchen; _I suppose she is,_ Sandor thought. _We’ve been living here a month, after all._ He thought back to his apartment, and the few things he had yet to bring over- a chair he was particularly fond of, and a few of Stranger’s bulkier dog toys. _I’ll do that soon,_ he decided.

“Your turn,” Sansa said brightly.

Sandor realised he had missed the creation of an entire roll of sushi, and he was forced to guess at the amount of rice when making his own, awkwardly patting it down with a spoon before adding salmon. Sansa muffled a giggle.

“You can’t just lay an entire salmon on top,” she chided. “You’ve got to cut it into strips. Here, you can peel the cucumber, I’ll handle the fish.”

Sandor did as directed and laid his toppings onto the rice before rolling it all up tightly. 

“I don’t think my grip was tight enough,” Sansa said, regarding her sushi roll; the seaweed was slowly unfurling, letting the rice escape. Sandor huffed a laugh before realising that he could feel the stickiness of rice between his fingers, too.

“Seven hells,” he muttered, looking down.

“I think your grip was _too_ tight,” Sansa said, with a wry smile. Sandor had managed to break the seaweed as he held it, utterly demolishing his roll.

Sansa regarded the two collapsed rolls with a slight frown.

“I have an idea for the next one,” she said. There was a sly note to her voice that raised the hair on Sandor's arms.

“Oh?”

“Stand behind me, um, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.” Sandor spoke without thinking. Thankfully, Sansa refrained from commenting on his suggestive tone and placed her hands on top of the sushi mat.

“Place your hands on mine, please,” she said.

Sandor stepped closer. He placed his hands on top of Sansa’s.

“I see.”

“Yes,” Sansa said. Her voice was a little breathy. “I thought that perhaps you could adjust the pressure like this. We might achieve more of a balance if we, um, if we work together.”

“Sure.”

They rolled the sushi carefully and held it together. Sandor was too aware of Sansa's back against his chest, and he knew that if they stood like that too long, Sansa would be able to feel _exactly_ how much she was affecting him.

“Probably ready now,” he said, his voice strained.

“Probably.”

Sansa didn’t move away, so Sandor stepped back with a sharp exhale of breath.

“Great,” he said quickly, before Sansa could speak. “That one looks better.”

The roll was perfect.


	22. Touch (part two)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s part two of the date, as promised. I’m not sure when the next chapter will be up- I’ll do my best, but it might be a day or two late. I hope you enjoy; I look forward to hearing what you think!

## Chapter Twenty-Two: Touch (part two)

###  **Sandor**

As they made the next three sushi rolls together, Sandor began to wonder what exactly might happen if he lost control. _Surely we cannot continue like this for much longer._ Sansa interrupted his inappropriate musings.

“I think this is the final one,” she said. “Together?”

_No sane man would object._ As Sandor stood behind her, he could have sworn that Sansa bucked her hips a little. His grip on her hands tightened involuntarily, and Sansa tilted her head towards him.

“Focus,” Sandor grumbled, though it was him who was absolutely unable to concentrate on anything except the feeling of her body pressed against his. 

Sandor noticed the danger an instant before it happened. Stranger nudged his leg with a little _huff,_ eager to see what the excitement was about. Sandor stepped backwards, knocked off balance, but of course, with his arms hooked around Sansa’s, _she_ was forced to step backwards too. Sandor just had time to push Stranger to the side before toppling backwards. He landed with his legs played on the ground, with Sansa on top of him, her legs either side of his waist. Her head knocked into his chest. She placed her hands on his chest to move herself upwards. Her face was inches away from Sandor’s, displaying utter surprise.

“It’s a good thing the sushi didn’t come down with us,” Sandor said.

“Dropped it just in time,” Sansa mumbled. She gazed at him, a smile playing on her lips; Sandor could see his own reflection in her eyes and didn’t like that at all, so dropped his gaze, but then he was looking at her lips and even lower and _oh gods I can see down her top._

“Sansa,” he said, dragging his eyes to her face once more. A strand of her hair had come loose from her plait and Sandor lifted a hand to tuck it behind her ear.

“We should get up,” he suggested. _Otherwise she’ll know_ _exactly_ _what I think of being in this position._ “That sushi won’t eat itself.”

“Oh!” For the first time, Sansa seemed to realise that she was virtually straddling Sandor. “Um, yes.”

Sansa stood up, smoothing invisible creases in her dress. Her cheeks were aflame.

“Gods,” Sandor muttered, earning her interested gaze once more. “Uh-”

“Let’s continue,” Sansa suggested. “I, um, I suppose we’re ready to eat?”

“I suppose we are.”

Sansa insisted upon putting them all of the sushi rolls on one large plate together and taking a photo before they ate.

“Even the broken ones?” Sandor asked, a little surprised when she included those.

“Especially those,” Sansa said. “The process is important, is it not?”

_The process. Seven hells, what a process that was. Does she realise what she does to me?_

They moved to the table and sat opposite each other as usual, swarmed by the dogs, both eager to try a piece. They ate slowly, tossing the occasional piece to Stranger and Lady. Sansa made a little humming sound in her throat every so often and Sandor tried not to squirm too obviously.

“Nearly forgot,” he said, standing from the table. Sansa watched him with interest, her head tilted slightly. 

“Here," Sandor said as he walked back. He held out his hand. “Chopsticks,” he added, as if it wasn’t obvious.

“Ah!” Sansa said. “Where are yours?”

“I thought you might say that,” Sandor said, triumph lining the edge of his voice. “That’s why I only bought one set, little bird.”

“You don’t know how to use them,” Sansa realised. “I’ll have to help you then.”

“No need. I haven’t cut my sushi rolls into those little pieces.”

“You’re right,” Sansa said, handing him the chopsticks. “You’ll have to feed me then.”

Sandor’s head snapped up. He looks from the chopsticks, to the sushi, and then back to Sansa. She was leaning forwards, her elbows on the table, her eyes bright and teasing. Never in his life had Sandor wanted to learn how to use chopsticks until that moment, but _seven bloody hells_ , he was going to try his best to learn now.

Sandor refused to give Sansa any sushi until he got the hang of using chopsticks, and he was unbelievably relieved when he successfully led a piece to her mouth. For the second piece, he dipped it in soy sauce first and leaned forwards, their hands almost meeting on their table. A little soy sauce dripped onto his finger. He lifted his hand and gave Sansa a wry smile.

“And here I was thinking I was a natural.”

“No,” Sansa said, matching his smile, “You’re doing well. That is hardly a problem.”

Before Sandor knew what was happening, Sansa had deftly grasped his hand in hers and raised his finger to her mouth. Her tongue darted outwards and she licked his skin. It couldn’t have lasted for more than a second before she released him, but Sandor continued to stare at her afterwards. Sansa’s eyes grew wide as she realised what she had done. Sandor’s lip twitched.

“Your turn,” he said.

“My turn.” Sansa’s voice was husky. She fumbled a little but managed to take the chopsticks from Sandor, their eyes locking as she did so. A deep breath seemed to steady her, and she moved with a fluidity that appeared innate, lifting a piece of sushi upwards and making Sandor lean forwards slightly. Sandor had never been one for games, but _this, this- flirting?-_ whatever it was, he could continue happily. And so they did, alternating with each piece until the cut sushi ran out. 

“We’ll need to rectify that,” Sansa said.

Sandor shook his head, but it was a weak protest- he was already reaching out for the knife, to cut his one roll into smaller rolls. _Whatever makes her happy. Can't say I'm not enjoying this too.  
_

Sandor cut slices from his own rolls, the idea of eating them in one go forgotten, and they continued until Sansa said she absolutely could not eat any more. When Sandor reached for the chopsticks, she shook her head with a grin and held them out of his reach.

“You may have converted me to sushi,” Sandor said.

Sansa placed a piece in his mouth, a smile playing on her lips as she did so.

“I made curtains,” she blurted.

“You did what?”

Sansa shook her head and looked down, biting her lip. Her smile was suddenly unsteady with obvious anxiety.

“Another piece,” Sandor suggested. Sansa offered him some sushi but no further explanation for a while. Sandor waited.

“I’m sorry,” Sansa said, shaking her head. “It feels rather foolish and unnecessary, I, um-”

Sandor could see that she was nervous, though why, he had no idea. It set him on edge, too.

“Tell me in a while?” He suggested. “Or don’t. Up to you.”

“Thank you.”

A few more pieces of sushi later and understanding dawned.

“You mean as a--” the word gift died on Sandor's tongue and he once more left the table.

“Here”, he said upon his return, feeling an utter idiot as he did so, placing it down on the table. _Now I understand why she was nervous._ “It’s a-”

“A magnetic shopping list!” Sansa exclaimed. “I love those.”

“Thought we could put it on the fridge, like. Would stop us having to look for the scrap of paper whenever we go shopping. I dunno, I just thought--”

“That’s a wonderful idea,” Sansa said. “Thank you.”

She beamed as if he had given her a real present.

“We’ll put it up on the fridge,” she agreed, picking it up. “ _Oh, and it’s a husky!_ ”

At the top of the magnetic list was an attached magnet depicting a husky, it's long tongue lolling down to rest on the paper. Sansa smiled at it.

“We’ll have to find a magnet with Stranger on it, too.”

“And a little bird.”

The words flew from Sandor before he could stop them; he was too stunned even to take it back.

“Yes,” Sansa agreed, not missing a beat, “That would be nice.” She took a deep breath and Sandor sat back down at the table.

“I made curtains out of thicker material, and I made them longer, too, for our bedroom. I thought that they might block out the light and help you sleep longer.”

_It’s probably more habit than light that wakes me early,_ Sandor thought. Then the true meaning of Sansa’s words slammed the air out of him and he leant back.

“Ah,” he said. _I must have misunderstood. If she wants me to sleep longer, does that not also mean she wants me to stay in bed with her? She must not realise the implication of what she said._ But Sansa was blushing red and she wound her hand through her hair, her gaze skipping up him until she finally reached his face.

“Thanks,” Sandor finally said. “You, uh, made them?”

He had noticed her sewing in the evening but never taken much notice as to what she was making.

“Yes,” Sansa said. “I hope they, um, work.”

Sandor just nodded. _Gods, she really is asking me to stay in bed with her, isn't she?_

“Shall we put them up?” He asked.

“Now?”

Sandor shrugged.

“That sounds like a good idea,” Sansa said.

Sandor didn’t know much about curtains, or fabric in general, but he could tell that they were well made, several layers sewn together with the outside a gentle grey. _Tasteful and neutral,_ Sandor thought.

“Nice colour,” he said.

“Yes. The same as your eyes,” she said quietly.

Sandor busied himself with the curtains so that he didn’t have to think of a response for _that,_ but it didn’t stop Sansa’s words from replaying in his head. They took the dogs out for an afternoon walk, strolling hand in hand, and when they returned home they ordered a ‘lazy dinner’ of pizza, as Sansa called it. 

It wasn’t until Sandor caught Sansa yawning for the third time in as many minutes that he realised how late it had gotten.

“We had better sleep,” he said.

“I don’t want to,” Sansa protested, tiredness lending her smile even more openness than usual, “I’m having such a nice time with you.”

“We could do this again,” Sandor muttered, “If you want.”

“Next month?”

Sandor struggled to find the right response.

“Well- I dunno- suppose we could-”

“Or before?” Sansa asked, seeming more alert.

“Whenever you want,” Sandor shrugged. “I, uh, I had a good time as well.”

Sansa smiled at him but was caught by another yawn.

“Alright,” she said. “To bed. I’m going to have a shower.”

“I will as well,” Sandor said, standing up.

There was a pause.

“After you,” he clarified.

“Oh. Yes. I mean, of course.”

Sandor felt his lip twitch.

“I won’t be long,” Sansa said, turning to leave, her cheeks pink. Sandor washed up and showered as Sansa dried her hair. When he entered their bedroom, she was asleep. He got into bed carefully so as not to wake her up. The bed dipped with his weight, and Sansa shuffled a little closer to him, until her head was nearly on his chest. Sandor reached out and brushed back her hair. He lowered his head and kissed Sansa’s forehead. He watched her as he slowly drew a hand to her head, starting to run his fingers through the waves of her hair. Sansa sighed, lifted her chin, and opened her eyes. Sandor gave a start and raised his eyebrows.

“I thought you were asleep,” he said. 

Sansa placed her head back down, her cheek resting on Sandor’s chest. Sandor realised that his hand was still in Sansa’s hair.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered.

Sandor continued to run his hand through Sansa’s hair. The tips of it were still wet from her shower, and he sighed heavily. _Seven hells, what is this feeling?_

“Are you alright?” Sansa asked, her arm on his stomach, her fingers teasing his side.

“You trying to tickle me?” Sandor grumbled. Sansa giggled.

“Sorry,” she smiled. Her hand stilled for a moment before she began drawing languid circles on Sandor's side with her thumb. Sandor bit back a groan.

“We should sleep,” he said.

“Like this?” Sansa’s voice was barely above a whisper.

“Would you like that?”

“I would,” she said, and he heard the truth in the strength of her voice; quiet as it was, Sansa didn’t hesitate. "Would you?"

“Yeah, little bird,” Sandor said. “This is perfect.”


	23. Announcement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, this is sadly not a new chapter, but I figured that posting it as a new chapter would have a good chance of reaching most of you.

Hi everyone, I hope you're all doing well. Firstly, I'd like to thank you so much for the awesome response to the last two chapters; I'm so thrilled that so many of you liked them! Your comments made me so unbelievably happy. Also, we're nearly at 500 kudos and that is just incredible, so thank you. 

Now, onto the reason for this announcement. Basically, I have COVID-19. There aren't tests available in my area, but I've got the cough, fever, chest pains, etc. I also have a cold, headache, and I'm throwing up- kind of odd, since those aren't typical symptoms, but I'm thinking I might have covid and something else (just my luck!).

As this fic is ongoing, I won't be able to post for a while. I don't have any chapters written, and I'm in no shape to write them now, sadly. I wish I could be more specific but I have no idea how long until I recover from this. Once I do, I'll have mountains of work to catch up on, and then I'll be able to write and update. I'm hoping it won't be too long; a week ish is my current estimate, but that's based on nothing more than a feeling. 

I've put a little comment on the previous chapter; if you have any questions or anything, feel free to reply to that or comment on here. As soon as I'm recovered enough to post the next chapter, I'll be deleting this one and replacing it with that. It'll be a Sansa POV.... that's about all I remember about my plan for that chapter (sorry!). 

Also, I do have preexisting health conditions so I'm a bit worried about how COVID-19 will affect me, but if I end up in hospital or anything I'll be sure to let you know. 

I hope you're all keeping safe and well, and rest assured that I will be dreaming up sansan ideas as I (hopefully) recover. It might be a while until I update, but it absolutely will happen :) thank you all so much for your response to this fic so far!

Sending my love to you all,

Shouting Skeleton

🖤💛


	24. Awake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone- the response to my covid announcement was so incredible, and I thought about you all a lot when I was bed bound. I was not expecting so many kind comments. Your support means so so much to me, especially now as I continue to go through the biggest upheaval of my life so far. I’m still ill, but out of bed and back to work, which means I’m back to writing too.
> 
> I will delete the announcement chapter shortly so that the numbers line up after I've smiled at your comments a little while longer!
> 
> Anyway, this Chapter is Sansa’s POV, and I think the next one will be as well. I’m used to writing daily so I’m feeling a bit rusty after not writing for a week, but that’ll probably be gone soon. I have plans for a bit of plot coming up :) I hope you enjoy the chapter and are all keeping well.

## Chapter Twenty-Three: Awake

###  **Sansa**

Sansa woke to utter darkness. _Clearly the curtains work,_ she thought, with a smile of satisfaction once she realised that Sandor was still by her side. They lay like mirrors of each other, with their stomachs pressed together and legs touching as usual. Sansa’s head came up to Sandor’s chest, her head neatly secured below his chin. Sansa fancied that she could feel Sandor’s heartbeat when she turned her head to press an ear to his chest, but then again, it could be hers, strangely slow given the excitement that came with this position. She was at once relaxed from waking mere moments ago, and on edge with anticipation; Sansa could feel her heartbeat loud in her ears. It gradually quickened as her gaze trailed over Sandor.

“Sandor,” Sansa murmured, turning and tilting her head upwards to look at him. Her voice was lost in Sandor’s t-shirt and she smiled, trying again. “Sandor.”

Nothing. There was something endearing about her husband in sleep, Sansa decided. Even unconsciousness could not rob him of his strength. One large arm slung over hers secured their waists together and prevented Sansa from moving her own arm. She moved her fingers tentatively where they had naturally fallen, marvelling over the muscle of his back. Her touches gradually grew firmer, pressing into Sandor’s side and back over his t-shirt.

“Sandor,” Sansa said for a third time; her voice was soft as a summer breeze, but she tried to speak louder so as to rouse Sandor. This time, she was rewarded with a sleep-riddled response.

“Whadyawan?”

Sandor’s voice was so thick with sleep that it took Sansa a while to decipher what he had said.

“Good morning,” she said, tilting her head up. As their eyes met, his expression shifted, relaxing a little.

“It is,” he agreed, his eyes never leaving hers.

Sansa waited for him to gently relax his grip to encourage her away, as was their usual custom, but he did not. _Then I shall make no move to either,_ Sansa decided. _I certainly have no desire to get up. But I do have a desire for_ _ something_ _._ Sansa moved her body a little so that she could better watch Sandor. As she did so, she felt a hardness dig into her stomach and froze. _Oh,_ she thought, as realisation dawned. _I perhaps should have anticipated this._ Sansa knew her eyes had widened when Sandor went to push her away, but some feeling held her tight. Not long ago the very idea would have been unfathomable, but now Sansa pressed the tips of her fingers into Sandor’s back- she was certain that he could break her hold if he wished it, but it was enough to still his movement, enough to show him that she wanted…. wanted…. _What exactly am I asking for?_ Sansa could not put her feelings into words, but what need was there for words when they had… when they…. they could….. Sansa licked her lips. She could feel Sandor’s hardness pressing into her stomach. His fingers danced up her side, an echo of the brush of her fingers on him just moments before. Sansa melted into his touch, arching her back to feel a little more of him. Sandor’s lips parted as if he might speak, and Sansa’s free hand snuck upwards by its own accord. She pressed it to Sandor’s chest, relishing in its hardness and warmth, and in one smooth motion she continued upwards, running her fingers up to rest on his cheek. She snaked her hand to the back of Sandor’s head, fingers winding into his hair. He seemed to know what she wanted, ducking his head.

The blare of Sansa’s alarm shocked them both. Sandor jerked his head back so suddenly that Sansa was forced to let her hand fall away, and she in turn gasped at the interruption. _Not that there was anything to interrupt,_ she thought, _but there very nearly was. Perhaps there would have been, if we had only-_ She shook away the thought; the moment had passed, and now there was nothing at all to dwell on except for that dreadful sound. It was with mutual resignation that they pulled away from each other, Sansa rolling precariously close to the edge of the bed and fumbling for her phone on the nightstand, and Sandor dragging himself off the other side of the bed, straight to the kitchen for his coffee.

As Sansa went about her morning routine, she was keenly aware of Sandor. _He’s in the kitchen,_ she chided herself, _you need to compose yourself._ But did she really? Her timing was less than ideal, certainly, but she wanted him, and he felt _something_ for her, clearly. Sansa stepped into the kitchen with nerves propelling her forwards, only to find that it was empty save for two mugs on the counter. She could hear the shower starting up and sighed, settling down at the kitchen island. _His presence is everywhere,_ Sansa thought, picking up the mug of tea that he had made for her. She meandered around the kitchen to the drawer beside the fridge, rummaging for the pen they kept that always seemed to go missing. _Milk,_ she wrote on the shopping list. It felt nearly natural, and Sansa realised with a slight jolt that _such things do not happen overnight. Yesterday was nothing short of incredible, yet I cannot attribute these feelings to one day._ Somehow, they had snuck up on her over the last month, and now she was firmly in their clutches, caught in a routine that involved Sandor at every step.

Sansa showered quickly and returned to the bedroom to get dressed for work. _I did_ _not_ _shower quickly in the hopes that Sandor might still be in the bedroom when I came in,_ she told herself firmly. She was _not_ disappointed when she found the room empty. She _did,_ however, smile upon noticing that Sandor had made the bed. Sansa knew it did not mean much to him whether it was neat or not, since she was the one who usually smoothed down the duvet, so the fact that he had done so this morning must mean that it was exclusively for her. It wasn’t until she was dressed that Sansa reached for her night clothes and realised she had left them in the bathroom. Barefoot, with the tips of her hair dripping out of the end of the towel, she left the bedroom and walked straight into Sandor.

“Oh!” She said, her voice coming out altogether too high and quiet. “I, um-” She looked at Sandor then and realised that he was holding her clothes.

“For the wash basket?” He asked, as if it was an entirely ordinary question.

 _It_ _is_ _an entirely ordinary question,_ Sansa reminded herself. _It is only that he has asked it upon this morning, when some peculiar feeling has overcome me, when I cannot stop thinking about how his presence takes up_ _ so much _ _of my life without utterly invading it._

“Yes,” she said. “Thank you.”

“Nearly ready to go?”

Sansa could only nod. She knew that she was blushing, and that she could give no rational explanation as to why, so she was thankful that Sandor did not question it. _Then again, he does seem more flustered than usual too. Well, perhaps not flustered, but he lacked his usual composure this morning._ Sandor barely responded when Sansa grasped his hand as they walked from the motorcycle to the cafe.

 _This is what it is to be happy,_ Sansa thought. She wanted to run back home and hold Sandor in her arms and never let go. _I will have to content myself with just holding his hand for now._ She appreciated the soft reverence with which he grasped her hand; tight enough for the security that Sansa craved, but always with some hesitance, as if he did not quite believe that she was certain, as if giving her a chance to pull away. Her mind flashed back to holding Sandor’s hand in the dark of the cinema, and the way he had cradled her hand then, the darkness rendering him more relaxed than normal. Her hand had drowned in his, and it was enough to make her crave everything. _Not only my hand,_ Sansa thought, _I want him to hold me, all of me._ A few minutes later and Sansa was cursing her greed, for Sandor had dropped her off with distracted goodbyes from the both of them, leaving Sansa to her shift at the cafe, and of course, Myranda.

It didn’t take Myranda long to surmise that something had happened the day before.

“Go on, what’re you grinning about?”

Sansa did not even try to deny it.

“Well,” she began, “You know I went on something like a date yesterday.”

Myranda smirked.

“No,” Sansa said, trying to keep her voice firm despite her immediate embarrassment. “We didn’t do anything.”

“But it _was_ a date?”

Sansa was sure Myranda hadn’t meant anything by the comment, but nonetheless she felt her happiness falter slightly, her mood deflating. They had enjoyed a wonderful day together, but what if that was all it was? 

“Perhaps just friends,” Sansa said, wincing as she said the words.

“So you’re friends now, but you want more.” Myranda didn’t give Sansa time to confirm before she continued: “Does he?”

Sansa frowned. Sometimes she caught Sandor watching her, and there was undeniable tension there, not to mention how they slept each night… _And everything he arranged for us yesterday…._

“I… think perhaps he may do…” Sansa paused, knowing she would likely regret her next words. “I would value your advice.”

“Well of course, who wouldn’t? Why’d you think I was asking?” Myranda tapped her lips with a finger, seemingly pondering something important. “So,” she said finally, “You’ve flirted with him?”

“I held his hand,” Sansa said with a triumphant smile which quickly faded as Myranda visibly cringed.

“Gods, that’s nothing. You’ve got to give him a _sign_ at least.”

“A sign?”

“Show off your tits, perhaps?”

“No, no! Not _that_ kind of sign.” Sansa sighed. “This is ridiculous. I’m- I’m not quite sure if I’m ready- I don't know what came over me this morn-”

Myranda was not as eager to give up as Sansa was.

“You won’t know until you try,” she said.

“I can’t,” Sansa said, trying to inject some force into her voice. “Not yet.”

Myranda shot her an odd look. When she spoke, her voice was strangely measured.

“Tell me about him.”

There was no innuendo, no suggestive note to her voice. She almost appeared genuinely interested. Sansa blinked. _Tell me about him._

“He is, um. Tall. Strong. But gentle. Slightly harsh on occasion.” She sighed. “He’s so very _good,_ and so kind, even when he doesn’t need to be. I fear he does not see it. He gives me a bit of a push sometimes, but he’s never too insistent. I don’t think he holds himself in high enough regard- certainly not even remotely near to how highly I regard him.”

“Hm,” Myranda said, and for one blissful instant Sansa thought that she might say something sensitive. “You want to fuck him?”

Sansa frowned.

_“Myranda-”_

“Alright, alright,” Myranda said, with a heave of a sigh that suggested the next words were difficult to say, spoken in an exaggerated drawl. “Do you want to kiss him?”

Sansa tried to think about it.

“No, no,” Myranda said, before she could. “Just- what’s your gut say? Three, two, one-”

“Yes.”

Sansa gasped. Myranda bellowed that laugh of hers that demanded attention and Sansa knew she must be bright red. Her cheeks were burning with heat.

“Ah, Sansa, you’re hopeless.”

Sansa felt her face fall. She sighed.

“Are you certain? Yes, perhaps you’re correct. I should not ruin what we have.”

“No, _no, the opposite._ Gods, you’re hopelessly _into_ him, is what I mean. Or rather, you wish that he’d be in--”

“I get it,” Sansa said quickly. “Do you truly think I should risk it?”

“You’re stunning, and a sweetheart. He’d be an idiot not to like you back.”

Sansa smiled at Myranda; it was perhaps the nicest thing she had heard her say.

“Thanks, Myranda.”

“Oh piss off,” Myranda laughed. “You’ve still not told me about the date.”

“I sent you the photo of the sushi we made,” Sansa said.

“That is _not_ the picture I wanted and you know it.”

Sansa felt her lips twitch into a smile. _I should not tease her like this._

“How was it?” Myranda asked. “The dress. You said-”

“It was nice.”

“ _'Nice?'_ Was it-”

“Yes,” Sansa interrupted her. “Yes, it was… less tasteful than my usual style. I rather enjoyed wearing it.”

“And?”

“And?”

“Did he like it?”

“Oh,” Sansa said, trying to keep her smile from breaking into a full grin. “He said that he liked it. Well, he said that he liked my legs, but I suppose that was the point.”

“Very good,” Myranda said, with an appraising nod.

One of the regular customers came in and she sauntered slowly to the counter, casting him a coy smile. Sansa watched, slightly enraptured, almost in awe. Only now that she realised how much she liked Sandor did Sansa truly understand the art of flirting. _How Myranda flirts so casually, I’ll never know,_ she thought.

“I like him,” Myranda hummed as the man left. “Tips almost as much as his coffee costs.”

“That’s because you flirt with him.” Sansa said. She hadn’t meant anything of it, hadn’t meant to say those words at all, but the words fell out, quickly joined by immediate guilt. Myranda simply shrugged.

“That I do,” she said. “And I’d do more.”

“You would?”

“He’s not unattractive, and if his hands are any indication, I’d have a good time.”

Sansa said nothing, but of course, Myranda continued, interpreting Sansa’s silence as a lack of understanding seemingly without a need for her input.

“Big hands, big dick,” Myranda said. She watched Sansa closely for her reaction. _Half of the reason for saying these things seems solely for the purpose of embarrassing me._ Sansa resolutely tried to show no reaction, but she failed to stop her mind from leaping from the nameless coffee shop customer to her own man, who was not nameless, but who _did_ have hands large enough to hide her hand entirely in his, as she knew now from experience.

Myranda grinned at Sansa and Sansa raised her hands to her cheeks as if that would help draw the warmth out of them. When that failed, she lowered her eyes, lost in her thoughts. She felt tormented with longing for Sandor all through her shift, terrified that the world would be able to tell. When a voice asked for black coffee she just nodded, and only when she heard concern, and a ‘what's gotten into you, little bird?’ did she raise her eyes with a gasp.

“Your shift ended a while ago, didn't it? You didn’t answer your phone.”

Sansa drew her phone out of her pocket and noticed that not only did she have several unread messages and unanswered phone calls from Sandor, but it was also nearly an hour after her shift was supposed to end. She sighed.

“I’m sorry,” she said, looking up at Sandor. He didn’t look in the slightest bit angry so Sansa offered him a smile. “I didn’t notice the time. Did you want a coffee?”

Sandor nodded his assent.

“Something bothering you?” He asked.

“No, I was only thinking of you.” Sansa realised what she had said when it was too late, and she hurriedly tried to correct herself as she noticed Sandor’s brow crease. “Not that that was bothering me. The opposite, actually. Well- I mean to say, um- I’ll make you that coffee.”

She turned around, her cheeks burning once more, feeling like an utter fool. _What is this nonsense that has overtaken me?_ Sansa wondered. _I feel comfortable around Sandor, I know I do, yet I am allowing myself to become flustered over nothing._ By the time the coffee was ready she had, at least, managed to compose herself a little. But then, almost by habit, Sansa reached for the permanent marker and started to write Sandor’s name on his cup, before realising that there was no need. She looked up to find that he was watching her hands with that intense stare of his, and ducked her own gaze quickly, trying not to grin as she finished writing his name. Sansa slid the cup over the counter.

“One the house,” she said. Thankfully, Sandor just nodded his thanks, and made no comment on the breathy quality that Sansa found herself unable to erase from her voice. “I’ll go and get my things.”

“Don’t you want to make yourself a drink?”

“Oh. I- on occasion I, yes-”

“Go on then. If you want.”

“If you're sure we have the time…”

“Of course we do, little bird. “

Hearing her nickname again in public- well, a near empty coffee shop, but still outside of their home- made Sansa dizzy, and she grinned as she made herself a decaf coffee with a shot of hazelnut syrup. She slid her own drink across the counter before leaving to retrieve her bag. Myranda was checking something in the storeroom as Sansa walked past, so she paused by the open door and called out.

“Myranda,” she said, “I’m off now.”

“One moment.”

Myranda emerged before Sansa could think of an excuse as to why she shouldn’t, so she froze instead. _I’m going to have to introduce them,_ Sansa realised.

“Go on then,” Myranda said. Confusion laced her tone, but it was the curiosity hidden there too that disturbed Sansa. _Why did she not tell me my shift was over; could she have predicted this? She does know that Sandor comes to pick me up, only usually I meet him outside._ Sansa bit back her suspicions.

“Of course,” she murmured.

Myranda had emerged before Sansa could think of what to do, so she just walked swiftly around the counter to stand beside her husband. Sandor’s eyebrow quirked upwards in a silent question and Sansa offered him a tremulous smile that she suspected looked more akin to a grimace. She watched with a surprising flare of jealousy rising and pinching her stomach as Myranda, on the other side of the counter, surveyed Sandor’s body. Jealousy gave way to a strange ripple of satisfaction, growing within Sansa as she observed Myranda. _Th_ _ese are foolish feelings,_ she knew, yet she could not help but hide a smile at the shock that overtook Myranda’s features as she took it all in- Sandor’s height, his body, his strong Northern features, his scars, his tight t-shirt, the very faint sheen of sweat on his forehead, the way his top clung in places to his muscles.... Sansa realised that there was utter silence, and that her gaze had shifted from surveying Myranda’s response to Sandor, to very blatantly checking him out herself.

“Oh,” Sansa said. “Um, Sandor, this is Myranda. Myranda…. Sandor.”

Myranda, with a coy smile, held out a hand for Sandor to shake. She took one of Sandor’s large hands in her own and shook it, all the while directing an open smirk at Sansa.

“Ah, so I finally meet you after all I've heard,” Myranda said, and Sansa thought she might die from embarrassment, unable to ignore the questioning look on Sandor’s face.

“Are you going to let go of my hand?” He asked Myranda, his voice rough. Myranda’s grin grew wider. She looked absolutely thrilled with him. To her credit, she did free Sandor’s hand from her grip, though Sansa was sure Sandor could easily have wrenched his hand away had he not been trying to be polite.

“Sansa,” Myranda said, before they could leave. “We _must_ go for a coffee date. It seems we have a _lot_ to talk about. But I won’t keep you longer.”

Sansa took that as their cue to go, and with a mumbled goodbye, she and Sandor were outside.

“Wow,” Sandor muttered. He passed Sansa her cup of coffee.

“She’s usually worse,” Sansa said. She looked down at her coffee and noticed that Sandor had written her name on it. _Sansa._ She smiled, and turned the cup around, and her smile grew wider. Next to her name he had drawn a little bird- just one line, and almost unrecognisable, clearly scrawled in a rush as he waited for her to get her things. It was enough to make Sansa want to giggle. She took a sip of her coffee to smother the feeling and then held out a hand for Sandor to take.

“Home?” Sansa asked.

“Actually,” Sandor said, taking her outstretched hand in his own. “How about going to buy a car?”


	25. Long-term investments

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Thank you all for the response to the last chapter; when I checked kudos recently, we were nearly at 500, and now suddenly we're almost at 550?! Wow! Also, thank you all for being so understanding and welcoming about my return- the only symptoms I still have are no sense of smell, the cough, and chest pain, which is annoying because I can’t go outside despite finishing isolation... But my symptoms are quite mild so I’m grateful for that :)
> 
> Anyway, here we have a rather boring chapter title for a short-ish fluffy chapter- I hope you don’t find the chapter itself boring- I seem to like sansan in mundane situations. The next chapter might be my first split POV chapter- aka a bit of a longer chapter with both Sansa and Sandor’s POV; I’m not quite sure yet though, so don’t hold me to that. It should be out in a couple days-ish. We're also going to see EB soon.
> 
> I hope you’re all well and enjoy the chapter :)

## Chapter Twenty-Four: Long-term investments

###  **Sansa**

“How about going to buy a car?”

“Oh,” Sansa said. “Yes, absolutely.”

_Now? We’re going to buy a car_ _now_ _?_ By the time they reached the car dealership, Sansa’s mind had calmed down slightly. _This is rather spontaneous,_ she thought. They had mentioned offhand a few times that they ought to buy a car for Sansa, but it was one thing to toss around an idea, and another entirely for it to come to fruition. _It will be nice to drive again, but I’ll have to come up with excuses to continue to share lifts with Sandor, if he wishes it._ She did not think he would object, and that brought a faint smile to her face.

“You mind if I go and grab something for the bike?”

“Not at all,” Sansa said.

As Sandor left to look at the motorcycles, Sansa wandered in the opposite direction towards the cars on display outdoors. She absentmindedly gravitated from one to the next. 

“What’s a young woman like you doing here?”

Sansa looked up, startled from her reverie; _perhaps I look a little suspicious._ The man in front of her wore a uniform that told her he worked at the car dealership.

“I’m looking for a car.”

“Any of them catch your eye?”

Sansa shook her head. All of the cars she had seen so far looked altogether too small. _I’m tall myself, and Sandor wouldn’t fit in half of these._

“What’re you looking for- something small and pretty, like yourself?”

Sansa resisted the urge to frown at the man. His tone didn’t sit right with her. _You’re not so tall yourself,_ she wanted to retort. Instead, she took a step away from him.

“Actually,” Sansa said, “Perhaps an ordinary-sized car would be fine, and I’m not too particular about the colour.”

“I’m sure you’ll need help.”

“Thank you,” Sansa said, wishing she was wearing her wedding ring, “I believe my husband may have more of an idea what we need.”

Sansa took out her phone, not giving the salesman time to respond.

**Sansa:** I’m by the red mini

**Sandor:** ok.

Sansa watched as the salesman’s expression shifted to horror as Sandor approached.

“Fuck,” she heard him mutter. 

“Husband,” Sansa said, letting relief seep into her voice. She reached for Sandor’s arm, tugging it towards her.

“I’ll get a colleague,” the salesman said in a low voice, making a hasty retreat. Sansa hardly noticed.

“Was he hitting on you?”

“I’m not even sure,” Sansa admitted. She felt a little foolish- _did I overreact?-_ but since Sandor didn’t seem to mind, she shrugged off the feeling.

“Not your type?” Sandor asked, mirth in his voice.

Sansa didn’t feel like sharing in the joke. She frowned and tugged his arm around her waist. He complied, his fingers reaching around and resting on her stomach. Sansa leaned into his side.

“No,” she said. “I have a perfectly fine husband here, thank you.”

She felt Sandor tense at that, but he didn’t break their hold, so Sansa took that as a good sign. A different salesman came over to them. Sansa didn’t miss how his gaze flickered between them, but apart from the flash of surprise that crossed his face, there was nothing amiss. _It is strange,_ Sansa thought, _the way he seemed almost to assess us as a couple._ She finally let Sandor’s arm fall from her waist as they followed the salesman around, catching Sandor’s arm in her own instead so that they were linked as they walked.

The first car they looked at that might fit them both inside was a jeep.

“Could be good for longer trips,” Sandor said.

Sansa bit her lip.

“It’s…. big,” she agreed.

Sandor made a sound in between a laugh and a sigh.

“Too big?” he asked.

Sansa nodded.

“We probably wouldn’t need one that big anyway,” Sandor said.

“Can we still go on long trips in a smaller car?” Sansa asked. She didn’t miss Sandor’s surprise, the frown that she knew meant that her words had caught him off guard. Sansa continued, “Might we find a car with space in the boot for our things if we were to go away?”

“Yeah,” Sandor said. “‘Course, if you like. You’re the one that’ll drive it.”

Sansa hesitated.

“Can we still share lifts?” She asked. “I mean, on the motorcycle. When we have similar shifts, I mean, perhaps, um, if you like, of course.” She looked up, wondering why Sandor hadn’t interrupted her rambling, and found him staring at her. She wondered if he realised that he was smiling a little.

“Sounds good,” he said. “Sharing lifts’ll save fuel.” There was a glint in his eye that told Sansa he knew that she did not want to share a lift for that purpose.

“Yes,” she echoed, her cheeks warming. “Saves fuel.”

“A smaller car, then?” The salesman asked.

“Yes,” Sansa said, a little embarrassed to have forgotten their witness. “Thank you.”

It was easy enough to dismiss the several smaller cars that they came across, and then they finally reached what Sansa initially considered “normal” cars, though she quickly realised from the way the salesman spoke that they were _family_ cars. They were smaller than the jeep, but still four-doored, with enough space for three in the back and two up front. They gravitated towards the cheaper, second hand cars, Sandor running over the basic details with the salesman.

“Perfect for families with children,” Sansa heard the salesman say. “You could easily fit a booster seat in the back without it obscuring the driver’s vision.”

Sansa flushed, but she couldn’t help but smile at the thought. _It_ _is_ _a long term investment, after all._

“We might need the space,” Sandor said.

Sansa turned to him, the wheels rotating too slowly in her head. _For children?_

“For the dogs,” Sandor said, noticing her confusion. 

“Hm? Yes, dogs. Dogs.”

“We could take them to the coast.”

“Has Stranger been before?”

Sandor shook his head. “Always meant to bring him down but never did. And Lady?”

“No,” Sansa said. “There are hot springs up north, but we’ve not been to the coast. That sounds nice.”

“Alright,” Sandor said, “So we’ll have one this size.”

Sansa nodded her assent and Sandor turned back to the salesman, asking about the car’s mileage and previous owners. _This is not too difficult,_ she thought. _Though it certainly helps that Sandor seems to know what he’s doing. I can see why we’re looking at second hand cars._ It wasn’t that they couldn’t afford a new car, but they appeared unnecessarily expensive. Instead, they chose a blue car, just over a year old.

As they moved indoors to discuss the insurance and payment, Sansa brushed her hand against Sandor’s sleeve to gain his attention.

“Are you sure this one is alright?” She asked. “I don’t mind too much which we have, and since you’re paying, perhaps-”

“No,” Sandor said. “You like this one?”

“I do,” Sansa said. “But-”

“We chose it together; it’s perfect for us.”

“You like it too?”

“I do,” Sandor said. “It’s no bike, but it’s good.”

“Alright,” Sansa said. “What now?”

“When the paperwork is over,” the salesman said, “The car’s all ready for you.”

“I can drive it?”

“You can drive it.”

“You feel comfortable driving it?” Sandor asked.

“Absolutely.” Sansa had no anxiety about driving; she knew she drove too slow at times, choosing caution over risk, and it made her appear a nervous driver, when in actuality she was the opposite. “I’ve missed driving.”

“We could swing by the apartment if you're happy to,” Sandor said. “Still got some stuff we could put in the boot.”

After Sansa assured Sandor that she still remembered how to drive, he gave her his address and they re-met at the apartment. Sansa parked next to Sandor’s motorcycle. The tinted windows allowed her to watch him unabashedly as she approached, almost forgetting to stop the car in the process.

“Questionable parking,” Sandor grumbled.

“I was distracted,” Sansa said truthfully. _Well, that shut him up quickly._

Sandor’s apartment was on the third floor, and they took the lift together. He opened the door, and Sansa paused on the threshold. _I don’t know how much stuff he needs to move; I ought to help him, but perhaps this is_ _his_ _space; perhaps I shouldn’t intrude._

“Come on,” Sandor said. “You can come in. It’s nothing special.”

He disappeared through a doorway that Sansa supposed must lead to a bedroom, leaving her to shut the main door. She took a moment to survey the place. It was all open plan, one large living area. Sansa struggled to figure out what was missing. There was a kitchen area, yes, and space for a television that now occupied a wall in the estate instead. There was an old worn sofa and a nicer looking armchair. As Sansa traced a hand over the kitchen surface, it came to her in a flash. _There’s nowhere to eat._ There was the kitchen surface, she supposed, or the sofa, but there was no kitchen island, let alone a dining table.

“Sansa?” Sandor called. “Do we want spare towels?”

“Sure,” she called back, edging closer to the source of his voice. “Towels are always useful.”

Sandor moved past her, dumping an armful of towels into the space in the living area.

“Would you like help with anything?”

“Sure.”

Sansa stepped into his bedroom, and glanced around. She was surprisingly disappointed. It was very plain and dark, with curtains drawn across the windows. The bed took up most of the space, and the rest was occupied by a workbench, with a small wardrobe squashed into one corner like an afterthought. Sansa wasn’t sure what she had been expecting, but it was a lot less _Sandor_ than she had expected.

“Are we bringing the workbench with us?” She asked.

“If it’ll fit.”

Together they dismantled the bench, adding it to the slowly-growing pile in the living area. Sansa started taking some of the smaller things down the stairs, loading them into the car as Sandor took the larger items in the lift. They placed the armchair into the boot first, and then pressed the rest into the gaps around it.

“Can this go on the back seat?” Sandor asked. Sansa turned to see him holding a battered suitcase with reverence. He seemed tense, so she didn’t ask what was inside.

“Of course.”

As Sandor took some of Stranger’s larger dog toys down, Sansa checked the kitchen cupboards for anything they might want.

“Anything worth taking?”

Sansa shook her head. Most of Sandor’s crockery was at the estate, and by the state of the remaining plates, the ones he had brought were the good ones. Most of the rest was scratched and stained. _Actually,_ Sansa thought. _He doesn’t seem the type to have multiple sets. I wonder if he bought our plates at home just for us._ Sansa held up the only item of interest she had found: an unopened box. The label boasted a picture of colourful side plates, but the side was secured with tape so Sansa didn’t open to check.

“You don’t strike me as the type to have patterned plates,” she remarked.

“Gift from Ellie,” Sandor said, brotherly affection in his tone though his words were more of a grumble. “I’ve never used them. She said this place was colourless and dead. Suppose she wasn’t wrong.”

“Not dead,” Sansa said, “Perhaps….” She surveyed the apartment, but found herself unable to decipher what was so different to the home they shared. “It’s a nice apartment,” she said. “I suppose it doesn’t look particularly lived in, but perhaps that’s because you’ve moved so much stuff out.

Sandor huffed a laugh. “It’s always been like this.”

“It’s not bad,” she insisted. “I like the beams.”

Another laugh.

“I hate those the most.”

Sansa shook her head. _As long as he likes our home, I don’t care about the apartment._

“Will you be keeping this place, then, or selling it?” She asked.

“Yeah, reckon I'll sell it. No reason to keep it now, is there?”

“No,” Sansa said, thrilled that he thought so. “Though it’s a shame to lose things like these cupboards.”

She opened one of the cupboards for what must have been the hundredth time.

“This may be my favourite thing about this place- apart from the beams, of course- everything just slots together,” she explained. “The shelving and inserts fit so nicely.”

“Well, it _was_ made for it.”

Sansa caught the note of pride in Sandor’s voice and turned to him.

“You made it?” She asked. It was nothing impossible, she supposed, but still. _A DIY project with someone who can actually do DIY,_ she thought. _That would be amazing._

“Yeah,” Sandor said, with a shrug of nonchalance. “I could make new cabinets for home, if you like.”

Sansa agreed immediately; their kitchen was far from full, but more storage space would never go amiss, and some of their existing shelves were an ill fit.

“Perhaps we might do it up a little,” she said, her mind running wild quickly. “If we have the funds, I mean. And the time-”

Sandor was already nodding.

“We can go through it,” he said. “I was thinking-” He cut himself off, and Sansa itched to ask _what? What were you thinking?_ But she stopped herself. _Sandor will tell me when he’s ready, there’s no reason to press him._

“How about-” Sandor paused again. “I remember you said you didn’t mind finance, so we could go over all of that if you want. It’s fine if not-”

Sansa failed to hide her relief.

“ _Finally,_ ” she said. “Yes, let’s do that.”

_I’ve been waiting for him to say that since we got married._ Something about working with money thrilled Sansa- successfully merging the practical elements of their lives coupled with the abstract numbers was satisfying.

“I thought you were just saying that to be polite,” Sandor said.

“No, truly, I would love to look over it all. But not tonight.”

“It’s been a long day,” Sandor agreed, though really, it was only early evening. “Do you want to get take out?”

“Chinese?”

“If you’re happy driving back, I can pick it up.”

“I’ll be fine. If I get lost I’ll pull over and get maps up on my phone.”

“Alright,” Sandor said. “I’ll lock up here and see you at home?”

Sansa raised herself up onto her tiptoes and pressed a kiss to his cheek. 

“Home,” she said.

Her blush was immediate and she hurried down the stairs, not waiting to see Sandor’s reaction. When she made it onto the road, she found herself smiling as she drove. _I’ll still be flushed when I make it home,_ she thought, the cold air con in the car doing nothing to dull the heat that prickled across her skin when she thought of her husband.

Sandor was waiting outside of the estate as Sansa pulled up. Sansa stared at him again. He made her forget the messy grass that bordered their home, and the peeling paint on the window frames, and-

“ _Gods!_ ” Sansa swore, once more forgetting to park until it was very nearly too late. She clambered out of the car.

“Took you a while,” Sandor grumbled.

“I’m fine," Sansa said, knowing that that’s what he meant. “Sorry, I drive slow.”

“At least you’re safe.”

Sansa wasn’t sure if he was appreciating her driving, or if he meant that she was safe now, with him.

“Should we take in the apartment stuff?” Sansa wondered.

“Let’s eat first.”

“You haven’t eaten?”

“Neither have you."

“You didn’t need to wait.”

“Wouldn’t have, if I’d known you’d be so slow.”

Sansa just laughed. _Well,_ she thought, _you_ _did_ _wait._

As Sandor pushed open the front door, it stuck a little before one of the hinges made an audible snapping sound that made Sansa wince.

“Might have to fix that,” Sandor said. “Cabinets’ll have to wait.”

“It sounds as if this is rapidly becoming a project,” Sansa said.

“It does,” Sandor mumbled. He seemed lost in thought a little, his gaze trailing over the kitchen as they entered. By the time Sansa had finished greeting the dogs Sandor’s gaze had fallen on her instead. “There’s little things we could begin with,” he said.

Sansa smiled at the allusion to the future.

“Yes,” she agreed. “We’ve made a start.”


	26. False Pretences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, I hope you’re all doing well! Thank you for the support on the last chapter; this one is another Sansa POV. I’m not wholly satisfied with this chapter, but it took me forever so I hope you like it nonetheless. Also, we hit 15,000 views, which is entirely overwhelming in a good way! :)
> 
> The next chapter will include EB and is from Sandor’s POV. I’ll try to have it ready in a couple days as usual. Thank you for reading and I’d love to hear what you think. :)

## Chapter Twenty-Five: False Pretences

###  **Sansa**

Sansa stared at the ring in her hand. Her neck felt bare without the chain, a constant presence that she now missed. _Today,_ Sansa thought, _I shall wear my ring on my finger._ The very idea sent a thrill shooting through her. Sandor had agreed to wear his when he dropped her off, “just in case”.

“Are you sure that you’re happy to take me?” Sansa asked.

“Of course. I’ll come by in a couple hours, and you’ll tell me if you want to stay longer?”

“Yes.”

Sansa hesitated. She didn’t want to appear vain, nor as if she was fishing for a compliment, but this was important.

“Go on,” Sandor said. “What is it?”

Sansa spoke quickly before she could lose her nerve.

“Would you mind helping me choose what to wear?”

There was a rather long pause as Sandor’s gaze flickered down her body.

“Looks good,” he said, in that familiar rasp of a voice that made Sansa unsteady. She bit back a laugh.

“Sandor,” she admonished. “It’s afternoon tea. I can’t wear jeans.”

“One of your fancy dresses, then?”

“I think so.” Sansa turned to the wardrobe, laying out several dresses. She couldn’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment when Sandor lingered by the doorway instead of following her further into their bedroom. _Sansa,_ she chided herself, _do you_ _want_ _him to watch you getting dressed? Yes,_ she thought. _Perhaps I do._ But Sandor remained firmly by the door, leaving Sansa to change into her first outfit, a bright yellow dress that she immediately dismissed as too summery and not formal enough.

“I’m not sure about it,” she said, before Sandor had a chance to speak.

“Alright,” he said. “Next one, then.”

_Well, that’s that._ Sansa just nodded, choosing a dark blue dress next. The skirts hung heavy around her ankles and she knew it was too big a step in the wrong direction. _It is certainly formal,_ Sansa thought, _but I don’t want to appear as if I am trying too hard._ She bit her lip.

“I don’t know,” she said, moving to show Sandor.

“Wow,” Sandor muttered. “Uhh, right. Why not?”

“Perhaps it is _too_ formal?”

“Yeah, might be difficult on the bike.”

That was enough of a dismissal for Sansa, so she nodded, changing into another dress. It was tea-length, and Sansa already knew that she would wear her silver kitten heels to match the dove grey material. The dress gripped her waist a little more than the others, before it flared outwards. Sansa couldn’t help but smile as she moved to the doorway to show Sandor. He nodded his assent.

“You like it?” Sansa asked.

“I’ve liked all of them,” he said, “But this one, you look comfortable in.”

“I think it’ll do,” Sansa agreed. “For this evening as well?”

“The Elder Brother won’t care what you’re wearing,” Sandor said.

“I know,” Sansa said. “I only wish to make an effort, since he’s cooking for us.”

“Is that your way of telling me you want me in a suit?”

His voice held a note of teasing, but Sansa’s eyes lit up at the thought. Now it was her turn to let her gaze rake over Sandor, under the guise of objectivity. As heat rose to her cheeks, she turned away, moving to Sandor’s side of the wardrobe and taking out one of the more formal, long sleeved shirts. Though she would miss brushing the warmth of his bare arms, arms that seemed always unaffected by the autumn chill, it was not too severe of a loss. _Not when I am awarded the luxury of Sandor in formalwear._ It was rare that they had opportunities to dress up, and so Sansa was grateful for this weekend, though she knew Sandor was slightly dreading the chaos. She was excited. Well, mostly. There was a little trepidation sprinkled in with the excitement, but she was keeping that suppressed successfully for now.

_It is a significant event,_ Sansa thought. _To meet Sandor’s friend_ _and_ _his sister in the course of a single weekend._ As if that wasn’t hectic enough, she had also been invited to take afternoon tea with some of her older friends from the society, girls- or young women, she supposed- that she had not seen since before her wedding. Sansa and Sandor had devised a plan that allowed them to do everything. Firstly, Sandor would be giving her a lift on the motorcycle to see her friends, and after a few hours he would return to pick her up. Together, they would visit the Elder Brother for dinner, likely staying late- though not so late that they wouldn’t be able to visit Sandor’s sister for Sunday lunch the next day.

“Sansa?”

Startled, Sansa turned in a neat half-circle, holding out her chosen shirt.

“That one?” Sandor regarded it with skepticism.

“You don’t have to,” Sansa said. “But I do love the way it looks on you.” It was not a coincidence that she had chosen one of the smaller shirts, fully aware that it would stretch taut across Sandor’s muscles. WIth reluctance, Sansa waited in the doorway as Sandor changed into the shirt without complaint.

“Don’t forget,” Sandor said, as they arrived. “If you want to stay longer, tell me. The Elder Brother won’t mind. He’s used to me.”

Sansa nodded, but she knew that she would not consider delaying their dinner; though Sandor had informed her his contact with the Elder Brother was sporadic, that did little to allay her fears around being late. It didn’t help that Sandor had shrugged the day before and mentioned something about the Elder Brother being _more of a father than what I got from my actual one._

“I’ll see you in a few hours,” Sansa said, turning away from Sandor. The roughness of his laugh had her spinning around to face him again.

“Helmet,” he said.

“Oh!”

Sansa moved forwards and Sandor unclipped the helmet, tucking it on the handlebars.

“Is my--”

“Your hair’s fine,” Sandor said. “Go on, have fun.”

Sansa nodded, running her hands through her hair before walking the final lengths up the driveway. The door to the manor opened before Sansa knocked, and she smiled at the butler as she entered, trying not to feel out of place. _It has been barely a month since I left this height of society,_ she assured herself. _These are my friends._ A voice in her head that sounded suspiciously like Sandor wondered where those friends were when her marriage had been announced. _It’s fine,_ Sansa thought. _It worked out fine- better than fine._

“Lady Sansa.”

Her entrance to the drawing room was met with excitement, and Sansa took in the room, her senses immediately assaulted by the smell of roses. Joanna and Myrcella sat in the centre of the room, and Celeste, the hostess, stood to greet her.

“Sansa!” Celeste exclaimed. “Do come and join us. My, you’re glowing! I hope you don’t mind the roses; I’ve taken quite a liking to them.”

The scent of roses was cloying in the air, and Sansa could see where they lay in vases around the room. But that was hardly enough to ruin the warmth with which she was received, and Sansa found it easy to keep her smile ready, her tone polite, and her posture perfect. However she soon found that the conversation was a little more stilted than she remembered, and at times the women acted downright juvenile.

“Sansa, my love, forgive my manners," Celeste said. "What would you have to drink?”

Sansa opted for the same pomegranate tea that the other women were drinking. A knock resounded on the door.

“Lady Louise.”

Sansa turned as the final member of their party was announced, greeting the woman with a warm smile.

“Your hair looks wonderful,” Sansa said.

“Oh?” Louise laughed. She shook her head, and her mousey brown ringlets bounced. “Sansa, you’re too kind. I must get this redone.”

Louise took a seat opposite Sansa. She addressed Celeste when she spoke.

“I apologise for my tardiness,” Louise said. “There was a terrible accident on the way.”

“Oh no, how very stressful.”

“I trust you are not hurt?” Sansa asked.

“Thankfully not, though the car nearly came to a stop, I could see all of the emergency vehicles- police, too. It was a motorcycle involved.”

“Police? It must have been crime,” Celeste said.

Everyone nodded as if crime was some tangible thing, responsible for all motor accidents. Sansa caught herself nodding along with her friends for a few seconds before she stopped with a frown. _I didn’t even hear where the accident was,_ she thought, _why am I nodding?_

“I’m so thankful that such issues don’t occur here.”

Sansa said nothing.

“Yes, it is a relief not to have unsavory types nearby- _too_ nearby.”

Sansa could have sworn that Joanna shot her a look as she said that, but she was concerned with more important things. As one of the women remarked on people _living in the wrong neighbourhood_ , Sansa wondered in what neighbourhood the accident occured, because if it was a motorcycle accident it may have been Sandor, _her_ Sandor. The timing wouldn’t quite match up, but Sansa didn’t think of that; instead, she took advantage of the other’s chatter to hurriedly text a message to Sandor.

**Sansa:** I heard about motorcycle accident, are you okay?

Sandor’s reply came swiftly and was brief.

**Sandor:** I’m fine, wasn’t me.

Sansa relaxed into a chair for one moment before remembering her posture. She took a bite of her scone in silent celebration. _He’s alright,_ she thought, again and again, the words on loop. _He’s alright._ The relief had her biting back as a sigh as she tuned back into the conversation. They were still discussing the accident.

“Do you know what happened to them?” Sansa asked. “If there were all of those vehicles, it sounds as if it could have been serious.”

“There were certainly enough emergency vehicles to warrant concern,” Louise agreed, “But I suppose that’s what happens with _the wrong type of people.”_

Sansa took another bite of her scone, not dignifying Louise’s derogatory statement with a response. The food tasted at once too rich when before it had been delightfully sweet, and Sansa’s throat was thick as she tried to swallow. She took a sip of her tea. _I ought to say something,_ she decided, but by then the conversation was moving forwards, the moment lost. 

“These are lovely scones,” Sansa said. She almost asked _how did you make them?_ before realising that Celeste was unlikely to have made them herself. _Sandor and I could try and make scones,_ she thought. _It can’t be too hard._ She smiled at the thought as the girls discussed the etymology behind the various pastries. It was rather wonderful to eat with people that used their manners, Sansa decided.

“Would anyone like cake?”

Sansa agreed eagerly, as did the others, allowing Celeste to cut her a slice. It was disappointingly small. _I do rather like these cake forks,_ Sansa thought. It had been a while since she last used one. _I should buy us cake forks,_ she thinks, _but I’ll be eating a_ _lot_ _more cake than this when I do._ Sansa felt almost petty in her criticism so set down her plate, swapping it for tea. The appeal of afternoon tea was not lost on Sansa. She almost laughed at the idea of suggesting something like this to Myranda- _she would never. Margaery might, perhaps- she may at least want to gossip as these girls do- though both she and Myranda are far more likely to suggest cocktails than tea. What of Brienne? Brienne might like to meet up,_ Sansa thought. She made a mental note to ask her, her hands twitching. She stopped herself from grabbing her phone just in time. _That’s not why I’m here,_ Sansa thought. _But then, why_ _am_ _I?_ It was disconcerting to find that she no longer found herself easily aligned with the others, so Sansa set aside her reservations for a moment and tried harder. At moments, she found that it was not altogether impossible to lose herself in the petty gossip; some anecdotes, though most likely exaggerated, were at least entertaining.

After a while, Myrcella expressed her regret and announced her departure, and Sansa offered the girl a hug before she left. The others were gracious as she departed, but Sansa didn’t miss how the topic of their debates shifted significantly after the departure of the youngest member of the group. Now, the gossip was more suggestive in nature, and the comments slightly more cutting. Sansa shifted uncomfortably. Joanna twisted her hands together several times, and it didn’t take Sansa long to realise that the apparent lapse in propriety was actually an attempt to draw attention to a large ring that she wore.

“Joanna, your ring is beautiful,” Sansa said. In actuality, she believed it to be over the top at best, and rather gaudy, with a large ruby encrusted in a bright, shining gold band.

“Oh!” Joanne exclaimed, with false surprise. “Thank you.” She held out her hand so that Sansa and the other women might inspect the ring. “Harry bought it for me; he’s awfully romantic. I believe he may soon speak with my parents to make an offer for my hand.”

_Harry?_ Sansa thought. _Isn’t that the man that said the same thing to a different girl a few months ago?_ Sansa frowned, trying to remember what scandal she associated with him. _I hope Joanna does not become entangled in such an affair._

“How beautiful!” Louise gushed. “Is that custom made? I simply _love_ to have my jewellery custom made. Richard had this necklace made for me last month.”

_Clearly that match was made for financial reasons,_ Sansa thought, though she chided herself quickly. _As long as she’s happy, I suppose….. Is she?_ Sansa didn’t have time to dwell on that, though, before she realised that the women were staring at her.

“How about you, Sansa?” Celeste said. Her brows were pulled together in concern. “We noticed you’re not wearing your engagement ring?” There was slight grief marring her tone, as if she spoke of some tragedy.

“No,” Sansa said, though she was glad she remembered to display her wedding ring.

She thought of all the things that Sandor had _not_ done for her- bought her fancy jewellery, as the women had pointed out- and all that he _had_ done. _He made sushi with me because he knew that I like sushi; he always makes sure to buy a sweet pastry when he goes to the shops; he holds me when we wake in the mornings._ Sansa frowned; such things seemed too intimate to reveal to the other women. Those personal snapshots were _theirs,_ but Sansa was all too aware of the women staring at her, waiting for her response. She simply smiled.

“Sandor made dinner for me last night,” she said.

In truth, they had cooked together, but Sansa knew she would struggle to articulate quite why that meant so much without blushing terribly. _Though it seems I’ve handled this rather terribly,_ Sansa thought, if the shared looks the girls were exchanging were anything to go by.

There was a long pause.

“That’s nice,” Celeste said belatedly.

Sansa felt a flare of anger at her lackluster response, but reminded herself that Sandor would not care about these women, not even slightly,. Sansa bit her tongue. Joanna reached out and gave Sansa’s leg a gentle pat in sympathy.

“You’re very good,” she said, her voice low.

“What do you mean?”

Sansa’s confusion was genuine, as was her surprise when Joanna grimaced.

“Well, I’ve not seen- but I’ve _heard-_ ” She broke off.

“We’ve all _heard,_ ” Louise ventured.

Sansa flushed as the true meaning of their words settled. Anger sent heat coursing through her, and it took every ounce of self-control not to shout.

“You show such fortitude,” Joanna continued.

“Yes,” Celeste agreed, clearly oblivious to the nature of Sansa’s silence. “To put up with that…”

Sansa finally snapped.

“To put up with _what_ exactly?” Her voice sounded sharp to Sansa’s ears, and she made no effort to stop it. “Are you suggesting that there is something inadequate about my husband?”

“No, no, of course not.” Celeste’s expression was one of confusion now, as if she had been expecting Sansa to have been ready to gossip about Sandor. _No, not just gossip,_ Sansa thought, realising the false pretences under which she had been invited. _They wanted to hear me bitch about him._ She took a deep breath and released it slowly. Everything felt tight, and wound up, and horrible, from her clenched jaw to her fingers curling their way into fists. _Think of Sandor. Think of Sandor._

“We are very happy together,” Sansa said, grateful that the rage in her veins gave way easily to genuine warmth at the thought of her husband. “He is kind, and considerate, and I daresay that I have never been happier, not in all my life.”

Sansa took advantage of the silence that followed to check her phone.

**Sandor:** I’m outside.Happy to wait if you’re having a good time. 

Sansa nearly scoffed. _Absolutely not._ The message had been sent only a few minutes ago.

“Speaking of my husband,” Sansa said. “Please excuse me.” She stood up, plastering a polite smile onto her face that was entirely at odds with the anger keeping her back rigid. _I must not forget my manners entirely,_ she thought wryly, _though by the looks on their faces I may as well have done._

_“_ Please excuse me,” Sansa said. “I have a prior engagement and will be going to visit my husband’s family now.” _And I will not be visiting any of_ _you_ _again._

With that, she left the drawing room, wrenching open the door without waiting for Celeste to call for assistance. She wanted to hurl herself down the steps, down the gravel driveway and into Sandor’s arms. He was leaning against his motorcycle and seemed to sense her distress, eyeing her warily as she approached.

“Are you-”

She didn’t let him get any further. Sansa flung herself at him, wrapping her arms around his middle, relishing in his smell. She loved how easily his arms fit around her, and how his scent was not overpowering roses trapped in a room, but masculine, mingling with the fresh outdoors. Sandor tucked his chin downwards and planted a kiss on the top of Sansa’s head.

“I take it that means you’re ready to go,” he said. “Did something happen?”

_He doesn’t need to know, and I doubt he would care._ Something in Sansa stung at the thought that those women would never know what Sandor was like. _But I’ve made my choice,_ Sansa thought.

“No,” she said quietly. “Nothing happened. I- I suppose I’ve had enough of them, that’s all. I would rather be with you.”

She broke their hug to grab her helmet from the handlebars. If Sandor was surprised by her eagerness to leave, he didn’t show it. Instead, his gaze flickered away for a moment. When his eyes returned to Sansa’s, he spoke in a low voice.

“Someone’s watching us from the window,” he said.

“Are you _serious_?”

Sandor simply shrugged. Emboldened by his nonchalance, Sansa fastened her helmet with a grin.

“Ready?”

“One moment. Which window?”

“Behind you, to the right.”

Sansa turned to the window in question and beamed, offering a wave to whoever was watching. She caught a glimpse of a shadow that hurriedly disappeared from view.

“Let’s go.”


	27. Real Fantasies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone. It’s been a while since we had Sandor's POV, so I was just doing some light writing to get into his headspace, and it turned into a chapter. It’s rather short and not much happens, but I decided to keep it, since the next couple chapters are causing me grief and I didn’t want to leave you with nothing in the meantime.
> 
> The next chapter will be a continuation of this one, also Sandor’s POV, and it will feature EB (I promise). It should be out in a couple days. I hope you’re all doing well- I’d love to hear what you think of this chapter :).

## Chapter Twenty-Six: Real Fantasies

###  **Sandor**

Sansa hadn’t been telling the truth when she said that nothing happened. Sandor could tell from the unnatural hardness of her voice; it was forced- something _had_ happened, only she didn’t want to talk about it. When Sandor said that someone was watching them, there was pure fury in her voice as she asked, “Are you _serious?_ ” Sandor wanted to know what had happened- he did not make a habit of punching women, but if they had hurt Sansa....Well, she probably wouldn't want any violence committed on her part, so Sandor smothered his murderous urges. He could have sworn that Sansa muttered _screw you_ as she waved at the mysterious figure in the window. She was, however, telling the truth when she told him that _“I’ve had enough of them.”_

And then, of course, there was the slightly terrifying “I would rather be with you”, spoken as if those words weren’t designed to strike like a fist to his chest. Sandor hadn’t said anything to that, because what was he meant to say, when everything she did seemed to clog his throat with emotion? It had been only a month and a week of marriage, one week since their almost-date, and already Sandor was planning their _next_ almost-date, and wondering what trips they might take on the weekends in the meantime.

The sudden arrival of plans this weekend had been far from unwelcome- it would be good to see the Elder Brother again- but still, Sandor had been hoping it would just be him and Sansa, and the dogs. They had fallen into a routine now, sharing lifts when their work shifts matched up. When they didn’t, Sansa drove into work, sometimes spending her afternoons in town with that weird girl from the coffee shop before driving home. It was strange, the way Sandor felt without her; their home was cold and empty without Sansa’s warmth, and every sound set him on edge, from a creaking floorboard to the beep of the oven.

It wasn’t until Sansa returned home, all warm smiles and rosy cheeks, that Sandor truly relaxed. He had thought that spending all those years alone, with only Stranger for company, would have made him immune to all that bullshit of pining over someone, but no. Sansa had come out of nowhere and now she took up his thoughts even when Sandor was alone- _especially_ when he was alone. Still, it wasn’t as their time apart was entirely negative. It meant that Sandor appreciated his time with Sansa more, and it gave him time to organise the events of the day in his mind. He valued the time spent by himself, even if he _did_ spend most of it missing her. He was less snappy when they were together- dare he say patient? Perhaps that was a step too far. But he was undeniably changing, and couldn’t bring himself to believe it was a bad thing.

Last Tuesday, Sansa had driven to work and stayed late, going out with her friends after her shift. Sandor had forgotten about Arya and nearly punched her when he opened the door and his eyes landed on her shadow. He had explained that Sansa was out with friends, and that she was fine, and could Arya please fucking leave now. He was home so the dogs didn’t need looking after so could she get out? Arya refused, claiming she would wait for Sansa, and Sandor had scowled at that, but allowed her to stay, foolishly thinking that Sansa wouldn’t be too long.

Two hours crawled by before she returned home.

Two long bloody hours. Sandor first endured Arya’s nosiness about what he was cooking for dinner- lentil pie- and then her insistence that she deserved some when she smelled how good it was.

“Aren’t we paying you to look after the dogs anyway?” Sandor had grumbled, but he gave in easily enough- gods, Arya was a nuisance when she didn’t get her own way- so they had eaten together. Well, not together. Sandor had dragged himself to his place at the table, and mercifully Arya had remained at the kitchen island to wolf down her food. But when Sandor had wandered into the living room, Arya had _followed_ him, with Stranger and Lady at her heels like some kind of pack.

“Put the kettle on and make me a coffee,” Sandor muttered, before she could speak. “If you’re going to bother me, you might as well make me a drink first.”

If he was a religious man, he might have prayed that Sansa would arrive before Arya could harass him further; but Sandor knew those buggering gods weren’t on his side, and sure enough, he found himself cradling a hot chocolate a few minutes later.

“What’s this shit?”

“It’s too late for coffee,” Arya pointed out. 

“Too sweet,” was Sandor’s only comment on the drink. At least she hadn’t added marshmallows to his like she had hers- so many that they melted into a thick, sickly foam that no doubt took up half of her bloody mug.

“Why’d you have it then?”

“Why’d you think?” He kept his tone snappy; his begrudging respect for Arya's concern for Sansa didn’t mean she was easy to keep his temper around. But Arya had simply nodded.

“Sansa.” She said.

“Sansa,” Sandor echoed, unable to keep the note of yearning from his voice.

Arya tipped her mug towards him in an almost toast, and they drank.

“Still done nothing?” Arya asked out of the blue.

It took a few moments for her meaning to settle into his mind, and Sandor decided not to dignify her with a response. Last time he had been alone with her, Arya had managed to figure out that he liked Sansa in _minutes,_ and though he hadn’t responded to that accusation, he clearly didn’t need to.

“Look,” Arya said. ”I'm just saying-”

“You do a lot of that, don’t you?” Sandor tried to inject venom into his tone, but his voice was tugged down by a sigh, the only emotion being that of exhaustion.

“Huh?”

“A lot of talking. Almost as much as your sister.”

“But she gets away with it I’ll bet, because you like her.”

“So what?” Sandor muttered. When he was with Sansa, it was easy to fool himself into believing she might like him back, with her slow, wide smiles and their fleeting touches. _She doesn’t like you,_ Sandor thought. He tested the idea in his mind, and to his surprise, was almost able to dismiss it entirely. _She feels_ _something_ _for you, even if it’s just curiosity,_ he decided. _Otherwise she wouldn’t run her fingers over you in the mornings, wouldn’t hold your hand, wouldn't flicker her gaze over you and bite her lip….She likes you,_ Sandor thought. No, wait. That hadn’t been a _thought_. That had been-

“Did you hear me?” Arya asked. “I said, she likes you.”

_No,_ Sandor decided. It was one thing to weigh the idea in his mind, to consider the evidence and then ultimately decide that _she might like me but that’s not something I have to consider because I won’t do anything unless she explicitly tells me she wants to,_ but it was another matter entirely to have Arya meddling, stating things like they were obvious facts when in actuality Sandor had agonised over their attraction being potentially mutual for more than a week now.

Overwhelmed by the abruptness of Arya’s comment, Sandor did what he did best: he ran, standing up and storming from the room. When Arya didn’t make any sounds that indicated she was leaving the estate, he relented- it wouldn’t do any good for Sansa to return to find them sulking in different rooms, Sandor reasoned. So he returned, brandishing a pack of cards as an odd peace offering.

“Poker?” Sandor suggested.

At first, Sandor was grateful that Arya didn’t broach the subject again as they played. But then another hour passed, and he noticed that she was starting to shiver. He walked to their storage cupboard and brought out a spare blanket for Arya, chucking it at her roughly.

“Thanks.”

Her tone hinted at genuine feeling and Sandor cracked.

“How do you know?”

There was a pause, as Sandor cursed himself for his lapse of control.

“I know.”

“You know because you’re her sister and think that lends you some automatic bloody-”

“I know because _I know her._ Same way I knew she was happy, same I knew you liked her before even you did.”

“I’ve always liked her,” Sandor said, regretting the words as they left his mouth. _Damn it._ Damn Arya for making him admit this shit.

“Well, she likes you back. Now, what’re you going to do about it?”

A hundred different moments flashed through Sandor’s mind: waking up each morning with Sansa in his arms, waking up to her legs entwined in his, or her fingers stroking his side. Gods, those fingers. They brushed his arm sometimes, and Sandor adored her light touch, but holding her hand…. _fuck,_ that was everything. Nothing beat that. Well, he could think of a few other places he might want those hands, but those were thoughts for a different time. During a shower, perhaps. 

Sandor remembered how they had landed together on the floor on their almost-date, and the way _he_ was the one to suggest that they get up. He pictured all of those moments with the added luxuries that he might gain: Sansa whispering that she wanted him, that she needed him, that she lov--. 

Glimpses of skin grew to broader ideas: Sansa in lingerie, Sansa wrapped in nothing but a duvet, Sansa naked in the shower- Sansa with _him,_ the both of them naked….. Sansa’s soft lips on his, Sansa’s lips _elsewhere…..._

Sandor shook that last idea from his head. But until that point, his fantasies were not entirely unlike their life currently. Did they not already wake up with bodies entwined? Did they not already touch, albeit not as much as he wanted….? The idea of a life with Sansa was thrilling, sending a prickle down his spine as he imagined a real garden, and painted walls, a decorated nursery…. _Fuck._ That unwanted thought was squashed down with ferocity, and, a little unnerved by his own sudden longing, Sandor turned his attention back to Arya.

“What we have is good,” he said. “But... I don't know.”

He wasn't sure if it was a risk, wasn't sure if he was taking advantage, but he _was_ sure that Sansa felt something for him, and he _had_ given her a choice, hadn't he? He thought back to Arya’s previous assumption that they were taking it slow, that they were dating. _Perhaps we really could_ , Sandor thought. _Perhaps my fantasies could be real._

He decided to arrange a few dates over the next few days- nothing too serious, not absurd levels of planning, just thinking of different routes they could take with the dogs, or routes that didn't involve the dogs but happened to be some of his favourite areas. He even thought about walks to the graveyard, but dismissed that. He occasionally checked how long the drives were to the nearest beaches, and he tried to remember details that Sansa mentioned. When they talked, he took special notice of places she liked to visit- museums, galleries- and places she longed to go- old ruins and spa days, filing the information away in one of the many mental folders labelled _Sansa._

But there would be none of that, not this weekend, because both the Elder Brother _and_ Ellie had decided they wanted to see them. Sandor briefly entertained the idea of doing something on Saturday morning, but when the invitation arrived for Sansa to take afternoon tea, Sandor knew that a morning out would be too much. The weekend was lost. Not that he was against the planned activities- free food and people whose company he actually enjoyed was unusual in a good way, made all the better by Sansa. _Still, it would be better if it was just the two of us,_ Sandor thought. They could do with some one on one time, so to speak.


	28. Meal for three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Sorry this chapter is a tiny bit late- life has suddenly gotten really hectic; I’ve booked a spontaneous and long coach journey for tomorrow, and the day after is my birthday, so I may be a little late with the next update.
> 
> Thank you to the great response to the last chapter, and for over 600 kudos! :) I hope you’re all well and enjoy this one. I’m not sure whose POV the next chapter will be, but I’ll try to have it out as soon as I can.

## Chapter Twenty-Seven: Meal for three

###  **Sandor**

When they arrived at the Elder Brother’s house it was a little past five. Autumn pushed the sun down early, and it painted Sansa’s face in a warm orange hue, sending her shadow out for miles. Sandor watched her for several long seconds as she climbed off the bike and surveyed the area.

“This is it?”

“This it it.”

“I like it,” Sansa declared, turning from the cottage with a smile. The Elder Brother’s village lay a little out of the town centre; close enough that he could reach town quickly if needed (as Sandor knew from the countless times he had asked him to), but far enough that the bright town lights were a distant memory.

“I suppose I don’t need this,” Sandor said, reaching to twist his wedding ring off his finger.

“Oh,” Sansa said, turning to him. Her slender fingers brushed against her own ring as she twisted her hands together. “You could… perhaps… I don’t have my necklace chain so I’ll keep mine on. Perhaps you might as well, just for tonight? Only if you’d like to...”

“Sure,” Sandor said, wondering how Sansa managed to turn his voice so husky. He cleared his throat. “Alright.”

The sunlight caught Sandor’s ring as he raised his hand, inspecting the band for a moment; when he flexed his fingers, little sparks of light flew outwards, caught by the setting sun. It felt odd. Then a shadow fell over him, and Sansa took his hand in both of hers. She ran her thumb over his fingers, and with a smile, raised his hand to her lips. _Seven bloody hells,_ Sandor thought, feeling his heart rate increase tenfold as Sansa placed a kiss on his knuckles. _I’ll wear this ring every day of my life if she’d only do that again._ She didn’t, but she _did_ take his hand in hers as they walked up the path to the Elder Brother’s door. 

Sandor heard Sansa take a deep, steadying breath as they waited. He squeezed her hand in response.

The door swung open to reveal the Elder Brother. He looked utterly serene, as usual, and greeted them with a smile.

“Sandor,” he said.

Sandor gave the Elder Brother a nod; really, after all these years, the man deserved a hug, but Sandor knew that his friend would understand why he couldn’t, why he was on edge.

“This is Sansa,” Sandor said.

“Sansa, it's a pleasure to meet you. Please, come inside.”

Sandor fell into step behind Sansa, remembering, for once, to duck through the doorway. He watched as she interacted with the Elder Brother, an unfamiliar feeling clawing its way up his throat. Sandor realised that he had no idea how he was supposed to act. If he didn’t bloody care for either of them, this would be easy, but instead, he found himself wanting to try, wanting to be open around both of them. But it was unnerving, too; they had seen intimate parts of him, one through years of therapy and the other in only a month.

“Sansa,” the Elder Brother said, “You look lovely. And you even managed to get Sandor into a shirt.”

Sansa turned and offered Sandor a soft smile.

“Thank you. He does look rather wonderful in formalwear,” she said, somehow without a trace of irony in her voice.

The Elder Brother led them into the living room and finally Sandor found himself able to relax a little. He knew the space well; he had his own designated seat, on the sofa closest to the door. He remembered how the first time he came here the place felt too welcoming; he was used to meeting the man for therapy in his office, not in his house as a friend. Sandor had bolted, straight out of the living room and out of the house and straight back to his apartment. In response, the Elder Brother had simply texted him to say _“I understand”_ and it was enough to nearly break Sandor. The next time they spoke was several days later- it was post-therapy, so Sandor had no obligation to message him- yet he did, a one worded message asking “why?”. The Elder Brother had suggested meeting over coffee, and it was there that their unconventional friendship began.

“‘To love means to open yourself to the negative as well as positive’. I believe it was Rollo May who said that.”

Sandor scoffed.

“I care about you, Sandor,”

Sandor could tell it was the truth, and it made his chest tighten. He let his eyes drift to the coffee shop door and managed to console himself with the knowledge that he could leave if he wanted to. He didn't run, but it was another month before he set foot in the Elder Brother’s house again. He had never dreamed of having such a place, where he knew all of its quirks; Sandor knew how the Elder Brother organised his records. He knew little facts that allowed precious insight for a fleeting moment. He knew that the gramophone was a lost family heirloom, and that the only time the Elder Brother had spent money on a luxury was recovering it. He knew that the books on the bookshelves were ordered by mood, and he knew that the Elder Brother had a habit of buying mismatched furniture, his chairs all bought in vintage stores and refurbished over countless long evenings. Even the photo frames, filled with paintings of landscapes, didn't match. The house- or cottage really- was nearly beautiful, something that held a lot of sentiment, and over time it had become something of a sanctuary for Sandor; there, he was only slightly more out of place than the rest of the furniture.

Though Sandor viewed Elder Brother’s house as a haven, he was careful not to become _too_ involved in it. After all, that would only tempt resentment at his own inability to make a place feel like home- Sandor could never allow himself that, keeping his apartment mostly bare. Soft jazz from a gramophone was to be enjoyed with Elder Brother, but not in his own home. Cooking in the Elder Brother’s kitchen was allowed, but at home, there was nothing differing from the safe routine of cans and microwave meals.

And then suddenly _she_ was there, Sansa, yet another piece of the puzzle, sitting in the Elder Brother’s living room. She fit in perfectly, but then, she seemed to fit everywhere, all fluid edges but somehow slotting into Sandor’s life like she was made for it. She had come out of nowhere, and she brought songs, and cooking, and little touches to the estate that led Sandor down the dangerous path of considering it home. He watched as she spoke with her hands, telling the Elder Brother an anecdote about the dogs, only she referred to them as “our dogs”. Sandor didn’t speak for several minutes, soaking up the conversation around him. The Elder Brother and Sansa spoke so swiftly that Sandor struggled at times, unused to such fluid conversation. When he finally _did_ speak, Sansa inched even closer to him, her leg brushing against his.

From then it wasn't too impossible to stay calm, though Sandor let the others direct the conversation. At times Sansa would pause and tilt her head towards him so minutely that he thought it must be an unconscious action, but he followed it all the same, adding detail to embellish Sansa’s stories. At first he did his best to aid in the storytelling, but slowly he became involved in the conversation, sharing his own stories, and laughing over memories with the two of them that he didn't know he had made.

“Sandor,” The Elder Brother said, when the kitchen timer went off. “Would you mind bringing the food through to the dining room?”

Sandor cast Sansa a look to check that she was comfortable without him. She met his gaze, her lips curving upwards in a small smile. Sandor nodded and left the room. He continued through to the kitchen, and brought out the food. What the Elder Brother said to Sansa when he was gone, Sandor had no idea, but though she still seemed nervous, there was a softness in her gaze when she looked at the Elder Brother that set Sandor at ease. He had not realised how important it was for them to like each other, but clearly, with two as good as them, there was nothing to worry about.

There was something undeniably domestic about the entire situation, from the old yellow lighting to the carefully laid table and the dish set in the centre. The Elder Brother served them cottage pie, as well as red wine- non-alcoholic for Sandor- which he insisted was the perfect pairing of flavours. They talked as they ate, seemingly finding endless topics of conversation. The Elder Brother told them about the various hiking routes he had taken recently, enjoying his partial retirement.

“There’s a nice track up North,” Sandor said, “But it’s no good in Autumn- the leaves fall and go soft.”

“If only you’d have been here to tell me that before I tried it, I perhaps would not have had to spend three hours cleaning my boots. Sansa, do you hike?”

“I used to, with my brothers up North, but I’m not familiar with the routes here.”

“We could go together,” Sandor said, the words escaping him before he could think. “Uh, I could show you some of the routes, if you want.”

“I would like that.”

Sandor could tell that the Elder Brother was watching him so resolutely avoided his gaze.

“Sansa, would you like some more?”

“Oh!” Sansa, by contrast, seemed to have forgotten about the Elder Brother entirely. “Yes, please. It’s delicious.”

The Elder Brother poured her more wine too and they slipped back into conversation.

“What have you two been doing recently?”

“We got a car,” Sandor offered.

“I didn’t know that you drove.”

Sandor shook his head, nodding to Sansa.

“Haven’t been in the car with her yet, though.”

“I drive very slowly,” Sansa explained, “It’s been known to irritate all of the passengers I’ve had. After using Sandor’s motorcycle, I can understand why.”

“You share lifts?” The Elder Brother’s faked naivety did little to disguise his mischievous tone. “And how is that?”

“I rather like it,” Sansa said. Her cheeks held a splash of pink on either side. “Sandor gave me a lift this morning, and we came together here too.”

“Of course- you visited friends?”

“I did. It was… they were not entirely as I remembered them.”

“It can be a shock to learn that you’ve changed,” the Elder Brother said.

“Oh, yes,” Sansa agreed with vehemence. “Though not an unwelcome one. It helped set my priorities in order.” There was a shine to her eyes, a sly curving of her lips that told Sandor that there was a hidden meaning to her words, though what that was, he had no idea.

There was something more to her smile, too, and it took Sandor a few moments to realise what had changed. _She’s tipsy,_ he realised, his eyes flickering to her twice-emptied wine glass. _But this is not dangerous. This is somewhat controlled, a loss of inhibition, dream-like happiness._ Sansa was several stages behind oblivion, and her motivation for drinking was clearly social, rather than drinking to forget. Sandor saw that the Elder Brother assessed this as he did, closely watching for Sandor’s response.

“Water?” Sandor suggested, in a low undertone to the Elder Brother.

“Good idea. Perhaps she may want to rest for a while. I'll get dessert ready.”

Sandor led Sansa into the living room, settling her down on a sofa, and ducked back to the kitchen. By the time he returned with a glass of water, Sansa was standing again, a dreamy expression on her face. Her eyes, brightened by alcohol, lit up further when she saw him. The water was thoroughly ignored, so Sandor placed it on the coffee table with a sigh and reached for Sansa. Her arms were on his in an instant, fumbling a little, relaxing once she found the right way to hold him. She tugged him with her as they moved, and Sandor allowed himself to get distracted by the heat of her body, the way her hands brushed his hair backwards so she could wind her arms around his neck. Sandor placed his hands on Sansa’s waist in a loose hold, and they began to sway.

The jazz from the gramophone provided enough rhythm for Sansa to guide their pace, with Sandor shuffling as she directed him. He failed to notice the shift in her gaze until it was nearly too late; Sansa’s eyes were like sapphires, darkened by alcohol, or so Sandor thought. But when Sansa reached up on her tiptoes, angling her face up to his, he realised that perhaps the wine had affected her in another way, too. Sandor caught Sansa’s waist more firmly and tugged her back down.

“S’ndor, I want-”

_You want to kiss me,_ Sandor thought, equal parts surprised and amazed. He stared at Sansa in silence until she ducked her head, a slight pout gracing her lips.

“Look at me,” Sandor said, his voice a low rumble. “Sansa.”

Sansa raised her head.

“S’ndor,” she said, gracing him with a smile. She pressed her body close to his, and ducked her head again, breathing deeply, her hands fisted in his shirt. _Is she smelling me?_ “Sandor,” Sansa murmured again. “So nice, introducing me to th’lder Brother- I don’t care what the girls say, I like your motorcycle ‘nd I like you… you’re good y’know...” Sansa rested her forehead against Sandor, his shirt soaking up most of her subsequent ramblings. Sandor caught the words “one month” and “next time” and “apartm’nt”.

After a few minutes of gentle swaying, Sansa sighed heavily, pulling away from Sandor and finding his hand with hers. Sandor extended his arm, keeping her at arm’s length and Sansa giggled, twirling in a surprisingly neat circle before spinning towards him, forcing Sandor’s arm to fold neatly against her chest. Sandor bit back a groan. Then Sansa returned them to their previous position, her arms brushing his collar, and Sandor found himself unable to resist the curve of her waist again. As the song shifted to a faster pace, Sansa shook her head, letting her hair tumble free over her shoulders. She didn’t just move her feet, awkwardly shuffling as Sandor was happy to do; no, she swayed her hips, guiding them to the rhythm of the music. She looked loose and free and utterly content, humming under her breath. Sandor was in awe- honoured, frankly, that he was allowed to share in this moment with Sansa. He wondered if she could ever feel so free when she wasn’t tipsy. _Yes,_ he decided, a smile playing on his lips. _This is not so different to how she sometimes behaves,_ he thought, her tongue darting out to wet her lips and her eyes always on him.

As a slower song came on, Sansa sighed heavily. They gradually regressed back to swaying, holding each other close and turning in circles around the living room. Sandor found he was unable to deny Sansa anything, even when she held out a hand for his in some strange mimicry of a waltz. When he eventually dropped her hand, Sansa did not let it fall not to her side; instead, she raised it to his neck again, and then, seemingly as an afterthought, slid her hand downwards, slowly, slowly, down Sandor’s chest. _She does this often,_ Sador thought, relishing in the touch of her fingers. He woke up frequently to Sansa’s fingers bunched in his shirt, as they were now.

Neither of them had mentioned that Sansa's alarm seemed to go off later now, as if planning for their time holding each other. They only touched over clothes, and Sandor wondered how much Sansa realised the physical effect she had on him. _Surely a fair amount,_ since the trousers he wore to sleep did little to conceal his hardness, and it was painfully obvious how he always dove straight for the shower. But Sansa didn’t seem perturbed. If anything, she appeared more encouraged. Her lithe fingers crept across him now, still tracing their way down, down. _How much has she drunk?_ Sandor wondered if he ought to be suspicious. _She was rather put together at the table, but now… Perhaps the alcohol has just now hit her?_

Sandor reached for Sansa’s hands before they could sink lower than they already had. He realised she had been playing with the buttons of his shirt, buttoning them up and unbuttoning them one lower than usual, smiling as she placed the first button in the second hole. Sandor looked down at her as she skewed the order, bloody grinning as she did so. Her finger brushed against his bare chest and Sandor sucked in a breath- _seven hells-_ giving Sansa time to re-button the shirt further. When she had ruined half of his buttons, she reached for his sleeves next, and Sandor took the opportunity to grab her wrists. But her hands were oddly nimble, so Sandor found himself missing yet again, allowing Sansa to push up one of his shirt sleeves with a satisfied hum. He allowed her to do the same to the other before saying firmly,

“I think that's enough now,” though what he meant to say was _I don’t think that’s anywhere near enough._

“Perhaps you should sit down for a moment,” Sandor suggested, guiding her to the Elder Brother’s sofa. Sansa sat down, reaching for him. Sandor obliged happily, slipping his arm around her, relishing in the dip of her waist and the subtle splay of her hips. They sat together in silence, Sansa resting her head on his chest. The gramophone stuttered for a moment before finding a rhythm, the music lulling Sansa into a state of near sleep. Sandor wasn’t sure how long they remained like that, but he was damn near sleeping himself when the Elder Brother finally came to find them.

“Ah,” he said, with a knowing smile. “I expect she'll need to sleep it off. Would you be happier at home?”

Sandor shook his head. “I think she’s only a little tipsy. She'll be upset if we leave now, if not in her alcohol fuelled world in a little while when it fades. Courtesy, and all that. If you’re happy to wait, I'll help wash up until she wakes.”

“Don’t worry about that,” the Elder Brother said. He nodded to Sansa’s body, pressed against Sandor’s. “I’ll get the washing up done and then we can eat dessert.”

By the time dessert was served, Sandor had woken Sansa, who had sobered up somewhat. She apologised profusely to the Elder Brother

“I don’t drink often,” she explained. “I apologise; I didn’t think how it might affect me.”

The Elder Brother waved away her concerns with a smile.

“No harm done at all,” he said. “Though It is a relief to know that Sandor is here to get you home safe. Now, what would you say to poached pears?”

Sandor ate dessert slowly, observing as both Sansa and the Elder Brother took second servings. They exchanged dessert ideas and bonded over their shared sweet tooth. Sandor watched as Sansa ate, marvelling that not once did she misjudge the distance. Her tipsiness seemed to have distilled down to a slight flush, and she was able to eat perfectly whilst maintaining the conversation. _Her manners aren’t some surface thing that alcohol can undo,_ Sandor realised. He found himself sinking into his own head again, dwelling on her behaviour from earlier - the memory of those touches clearly wasn’t going away soon- and trying to evaluate whether she really _was_ tipsy when they danced.

_She’s certainly less inhibited tonight,_ Sandor thought. When he had drunk, alcohol stripped back his layers, revealing the rage and misery beneath his facade of nonchalance. If alcohol had done that to him, could that mean that it exposed Sansa’s true self, her desire too? _If so, then that desire was….is…. me._

“Sandor?”

“Hm?”

“Sansa was telling me that you’re going to see Ellie tomorrow.”

“Right, uh, yeah. We’re going for lunch,” Sandor said.

“I shouldn’t keep you too late, then,” the Elder Brother said. “Sansa, come, and I’ll find you the recipe for the pears.”

“I’ll do the plates,” Sandor said. He moved between the table and kitchen, making a start on the washing up. He didn’t realise how much time had passed until the last bowl was clean. Leaning on the kitchen door frame, he could see Sansa and the Elder Brother in the hallway. Sansa laughed, and reaching upwards, briefly wound her arms around the Elder Brother. As they pulled apart from their hug, Sandor moved towards them, trying not to reveal how emotional their evident connection made him.

“Ready to go?” He asked.

“I believe so.” Sansa’s cheeks were still pink, but Sandor was no longer sure if alcohol was the cause.

The Elder Brother walked them to the door of his cottage. Sandor could see him standing there, watching them, silhouetted by the glow of the cottage lights. As they reached the bike Sandor briefly considered if Sansa would struggle to grip his waist after the wine she had drunk- but no. Her hold on him was as strong as ever.


	29. Lie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Thank you so much for the response to the last chapter, and to this story in general. It's been almost two months since I started posting and it's still the best decision I've ever made :)
> 
> I’m sorry this chapter is so so late- I have started calling it the “cursed chapter” because I’ve been finding it so tricky to write- I’m not even sure why, but hopefully it turned out alright. I’ve been reading your comments as I’ve been writing to keep myself motivated :). Sorry for the slight cliffhanger as well; the next chapter continues straight on, but it’s from Sansa’s POV.
> 
> I think I may have to change my upload schedule to once every three (or on rare occasions, four) days instead of every two days. I hope you don’t mind- life had become suddenly busy and I don’t want my writing quality to decrease for the sake of slightly faster uploads.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you’re all doing well, and I look forward to hearing what you think of this chapter :)

## Chapter Twenty-Eight: Lie

###  **Sandor**

“This one will do?” Sandor asked, holding up a t-shirt.

“That one looks lovely,” Sansa said.

Sandor resisted the urge to laugh;  _ it seems she likes me in t-shirts.  _ Sandor pretended not to notice the lingering glances Sansa gave him, and she didn’t acknowledge his staring, either. He paired the top with dark jeans, though wondered if he ought to wear something nicer.  _ Stop being so bloody ridiculous. It’s only lunch with Ellie- I’ve done this a hundred times.  _ This time was different, however. This time involved Sansa, and she had clearly put considerable thought into her outfit, enough to make Sandor wonder if he was supposed to as well. He noticed that Sansa had straightened her hair using a her new straightener, and it fell bright against the royal blue of her dress. She looked, as usual, incredible, though Sandor noticed that she continuously tugged her sleeves down, plagued by nerves. Once they were in the car, her fingers danced up and down the steering wheel. Her jittery mood was rubbing off on Sandor, and he tried to keep his exasperation from deeping into his voice as he spoke,

“Sansa, it’ll be fine.”

“I know,” she said, though the smile she gave him was a tight one. “I wonder if I ought to have made her something, perhaps.”

“It’s Sunday lunch, nothing special. If you’ve the time, you could make her something for Christmas, she’d like that.”

Sansa perked up at that suggestion, though Christmas was still several months away, and immediately started murmuring something about “ _ another _ trip to the fabric shop”.

_ “‘Another'  _ trip?” Sandor questioned.

“One of Margaery’s friends wants her to make, um, baby outfits, but she doesn’t have the time so asked that I would. I may have to go to the shop again for fabric.”

“Ah. Right.”

“She offered to pay me for it,” Sansa continued. “I thought perhaps it might be something I could do on the side. in addition to work.” She hesitated. “It’s terribly presumptuous of me to assume that it will be a success, but….” Her gaze grew wistful.

“I don't know if it’ll take off, little bird. But what I’ve seen you make looks bloody perfect.”

It was a weak response, Sandor thought. He couldn’t promise that it would go well, and his opinion was virtually useless since he knew nothing about sewing. Yet Sansa looked thrilled, as if he had paid her the highest compliment possible.

“Do you truly think so? I’ve been thinking that I might make you something.”

“What- more curtains?”

“Or clothes,” Sansa ventured. “If you would like.”

_ Clothes.  _ There was something intimate about the idea, and Sandor found himself unable to tear his gaze from Sansa.  _ She wants to make me clothes. _

“If you’ve the time, that’d be- sure. Nice. Uh, how’re you finding the new sewing machine?”

He caught the surprise that flashed across Sansa’s face- clearly she didn’t know that he had noticed- but thankfully there was no anxiety there.  _ Good,  _ Sandor thought,  _ she isn’t worried that I’ll be angry. _

They had gone over their finances together one evening and found that once they sold his old apartment, their financial position would be better than they had realised, especially now that they were both working. To Sandor’s surprise, Sansa had hesitated at first, asking several times if he was absolutely sure they would be okay if she spent her money on what she deemed “unnecessary purchases”. It wasn’t until Sandor bought himself a new laptop that Sansa finally relaxed and started buying herself things, too. The first thing Sandor had noticed was the straighteners, but in the past few days he saw that Sansa’s old sewing machine had been replaced with a much flashier version. There were other clues to Sansa’s spending too; that morning, when Sandor opened the bathroom cupboard, several balls of grey wool had assaulted him. He could only assume they were courtesy of Sansa, though what they were for he had no idea.

A glance at Google maps told Sandor that they were still half an hour away from Ellie’s house and he sighed heavily. _If it wasn’t for the dogs, we could have taken the bike_. It wasn’t that Sansa was a  _ bad  _ driver- it was just that she was safe. Painfully safe. She _slowed_ when she reached traffic lights, and there was no overtaking on the multi laned roads- or rather,  _ everyone  _ seemed to be overtaking  _ them _ . 

“We should have got a sidecar for the bike and put the dogs in there,” Sandor said.

Sansa’s reaction was instantaneous.

_ “Sandor!”  _ Sansa said. “I’m driving perfectly safely!”

“Safely? He grumbled. “We’re going to die from old age before we get there.”

The car stopped so suddenly that Sandor was jerked forwards. He shot Sansa an accusatory glare.

“What?” She asked innocently, “There’s a red light, see?”

There  _ was  _ a red light, but Sansa’s attempts to hide her guilt were foiled by the grin she was unable to contain.

“Well,” Sandor said, pretending to think. He matched Sansa’s tone, a mimicry of innocence. “If you  _ want  _ to be late...”

“Did we specify a time?” Sansa’s voice was tinged with nerves and Sandor chuckled as she sped up slightly.

“No,” he admitted. “El won’t care.”

“Oh, good.” Sansa slowed down to her original tortuous speed. “Wh-”

She broke off before she could even say anything. Sandor watched as she grappled for the right words, giving her time.

“Sandor?” Sansa finally asked.

“Yeah?”

“Um, I was thinking about Ellie. She seems to think we're dating.”

“Right. Yes.”

There was a pause.

“That’s just Ellie,” Sandor explained, “She’s always like that. She’s… overly optimistic.”

He glanced to the side and caught Sansa’s brief frown.

“She’s hopeful,” he amended quietly, earning a nod from Sansa.

“So we aren’t telling her?”

“No.”

“We don’t tell her we’re-” Sansa broke off.

“Dati- married.“

“Yes.” Sansa was biting her lip.

“Nothing to make her suspect that we’re married," Sandor agreed. "It's not that I- She'll be angry. Furious. It’s the nature of it- uh- how it started.” Sandor watched Sansa’s expression shift in thought as he stumbled over his words.

“What about dating?” She gave a little half shrug as she spoke, as if to play off the suggestion as casual; her measured tone and tense grip on the steering wheel suggested it was calculated.

“If we tell her that, she would be even more intense. She's an events planner- she'd be planning our wedding.”

Sansa cracked a weak smile. 

“I see,” she said, the words clouded by a sigh. “So we won't be telling her that we're - we won't be preten- saying- um. We're not dating. I- um-”

“Right,” Sandor said, resolutely avoiding looking at Sansa. “We’re not dating or married either. We'll be... friends.”

“Yes. Friends.”

********************************************

“On your right,” Sandor said, as they reached Ellie’s home, “You can park up the driveway.” 

When Ellie had first moved in two years ago, Sandor was confident he had arrived at the wrong place. For someone so vehemently opposed to unnecessary displays of wealth, Ellie had made a surprising purchase. The detached building boasted a ridiculously long driveway, leading up to the house; it had once been a manor, and though it was now reduced to one building, it still fell far from what Sandor had imagined Ellie would choose. He was a fool, of course. The building was in disrepair- hence the low price- and Ellie had done it up beautifully inside. Sandor watched in quiet anticipation as Sansa went through the same steps of confusion that he once had, trying to align the seemingly old-fashioned house with Ellie’s far more contemporary views. The first clue was the front door; rather than replacing the rotten-oak door with one of a similar design, Ellie had opted for an entirely modern, bright red door when she moved in. It looked ridiculous with the old brick surrounding it, and she loved it. The previous stone steps had been thrown in a skip too, in favour of a small ramp.

Sansa opened the car door for the dogs and together the four of them walked up to the house.

“Alright,” Sansa muttered, so low that the words could only have been for herself. “Here we go.” She raised her hand. The door swung open before Sansa could knock, and she jumped. They came face to face with Theo.

“Uncle Sandy,” he said, with a gentle smile. “I saw you from the window. Hello Sansa.”

“Hi Theo,” Sansa said, “It’s nice to see you again.”

Sandor stepped inside and knelt down, pulling Theo into his arms. The scrabble of claws on floorboards preceded a wet nose shoved between them as Hero tried to join their embrace.

“Hero,” Sandor grumbled, pulling back to give Ellie’s dog a pat.

_ “Theo!  _ You were meant to tell me when they got here!” Jon’s voice appeared before he did, his socks allowing him to slide around the corner.

“You’re lucky your mother isn’t here to see you do that,” Sandor said, grasping his other nephew in a hug as well. He was careful not to crush Jon’s broken arm, which was encased in a bright yellow cast. A brief glance towards Sansa didn’t go unnoticed by Jon, who promptly wriggled free from Sandor’s hug to sidle up to her.

“And who’re you?”

“Jon! That’s no way to address a guest.” Looking slightly hassled, Ellie made her way to Sansa. “Sansa, it’s good to finally have you round. Boys, this is Sansa. She’s Sandor’s…”

“Friend,” Sandor offered firmly, with a stern glance thrown Ellie’s way.

“Friend,” Ellie echoed, shooting her brother a grin. “Sansa, come here.”

Sandor winced as Ellie hugged Sansa- he knew only too well the perils of her vice-like grip.

“I hope we aren’t late,” Sansa said.

“Not at all. We’re having lamb and rosemary potatoes for lunch.”

“That sounds lovely,” Sansa said. “Would you like any help with anything?”

“Don’t think so, but thanks.”

“No Elliott?”

“No Elliott,” Ellie confirmed with a frown. “My husband is an architect,” she explained to Sansa. “He’s supervising a new project so won’t be joining us for lunch. But I’m sure you’ll meet him at some point.”

Sandor pretended not to have heard Ellie’s blatant allusion to future meetings. Despite the near-constant vigilance of pretending to  _ not  _ be married to Sansa, Sandor found it difficult not to relax. Though Ellie had only been living at the place for a couple of years, Sandor knew it well. After all, he had helped with many of the restorations, sitting with Ellie and her husband and planning it all. The grand staircase was demolished in favour of a lift and a huge entranceway. Sandor watched as Sansa’s eyes grew wide upon taking in the kitchen. It was entirely sleek and modern, with under-cabinet lights, hidden handles, and cupboards with doors that simply folded into nothing. It was excessively modern, and Ellie took great joy in keeping it perfectly spotless. It was nearly home for Sandor, though he supposed he owed that more to Ellie's presence than the house itself.  


“Your home is beautiful,” Sansa said.

“Courtesy of Sandor, most of it. He helped us do it up.”

“Amazing,” Sansa murmured. She turned to offer a smile solely for Sandor.

“Do you have wine with lunch?” Ellie offered.

“Oh, no, um, I’d better not.” It took Sandor a few moments to recall why Sansa’s voice shot up, and when he did, he failed to stop his rasping laugh. Sansa’s neck flushed red.  _ We never did discuss that,  _ Sandor thought. Sansa’s embarrassment was rather endearing, but he supposed he had better let her know that there had been no harm done.

"You danced very nicely," he rasped in her ear.

Sansa was saved from responding by Jon.

“Uncle Sandy?” He asked.  


Sandor turned to his nephew.

“Will you sign my cast?”

“Of course.”

Sandor grabbed a pen from the magnetic holder on the fridge.  _ We should get one of those holders,  _ he thought. It would be better than the constantly-disappearing pen they kept in a drawer. When his name was carefully squashed into a small gap as directed by Jon, Sandor and his nephews started taking food to the table, flanked by three eager dogs. He tuned into the conversation a little, listening as Ellie told Sansa about her job as an events planner.

“Yes,” Sansa said. “Sandor warn- told me about that.”

“What do you do?” Ellie asked.

“Oh, I work in a coffee shop.”   


“Is that as a gap year?”

There was a pause. Sandor noticed Sansa’s gaze slide towards him as he approached.

“I- um- maybe. I was- I’ve been taking some time to organise my life. I... I briefly considered studying law,” Sansa said. “But now I’m not certain.”

Sandor tried not to let his shock show on his face.  _ She didn’t just make that up to lie to Ellie,  _ Sandor realised, watching how Sansa bit her lip.  _ I should’ve known that about her. _

“You’d be good at that,” he said in a low voice.

“Yeah?” Sansa turned to him and smiled.

“Yeah.” He nodded.

For a moment the world was reduced to just the two of them.Then Ellie slammed the oven a bit too loudly and they broke their gaze. Ellie offered him what she probably thought was a knowing look. Sandor ducked his gaze, guilt suddenly finding a place in his mind.  _ If this did evolve, this strange friendship with Sansa, what would we tell El? In the long term…..  _ Sandor frowned. He had never been one to think about the future.  _ But now there’s Sansa to consider. _

“Sandor?”

“Sorry,” he muttered, snapping out of his daze and continuing to lay the table. As usual, Ellie had made far too much food, but it all looked delicious.

“Roast lamb, rosemary potatoes, beans, gravy, mint sauce,” Ellie announced. She had already prepared a plate for Jon, with his food all cut up to save him having to struggle to eat with his cast.

“It’s so nice not to have to cook,” Sansa said. “I feel we've been absolutely spoiled this weekend.”

“Ah yes,” Ellie said. “How is the Elder Brother?”

“He seems well,” Sansa said. “He gave me his recipe for-”

“Poached pears.”

They spoke at the same time.

“Oh!” Sansa said, with a grin.

“It’s his speciality,” Ellie said. “You should try them with ice cream, the hot and cold goes so well together.”

“Ice cream?” Jon was suddenly attentive, roused from his plate.

“Not today,” Ellie smiled. “It’s getting too cold. I picked up some eclairs for dessert, though. Recommendation of Bronn and Margasery, actually. I bumped into them in town. Margaery mentioned you guys.”

“Oh, she did?” Sansa tensed.

“Such a wonderful couple. Ellie’s grin slowly turned mischievous. And speaking of, how did you two meet?”

Sandor waited for Sansa to throw him a panicked glance, but none came. He was ready to waffle some shit about Sansa knowing Margaery, but found that there was no need.

“Well, it was Lady and Stranger that introduced us,” Sansa lied fluidly. “It was hard not to start talking when our dogs wouldn’t leave each other alone.”

“What breed’s your dog?” Theo asked.

Lady, sensing that she was the centre of attention, shoved her nose into Sandor’s palm. He gave her a surreptitious pat as Sansa chatted with his nephews about their dogs. There was something marvellous about her as she spoke with his family.  


“Sandor?” Ellie asked.

“Hm?”

“Could you pass me the potatoes please?”

“Me too,” Jon said quickly. “But only crispy potatoes for me. My tooth is wobbly and I want it out  _ now _ .” He proceeded to stick his hand into his mouth to show them. 

Sandor waited for Sansa;s disgust but it didn't happen. She nodded sagely instead. 

"Do you think the tooth fairy will visit?" She asked.  


“I hope so. Last time Theo got five pounds.” 

“That's because it was his first tooth,” Ellie said, “This is your fourth, you won't be getting that much.”

“I'll let the tooth fairy decide that,” Jon declared.

Sansa laughed at Jon's attitude, and Sandor couldn't help but share in her mirth. _It's like she's a part of the family._ The thought refused to be shoved down.

“Here, Jon,” Ellie said, reaching over to help him with his potatoes.

“I can do it myself,” Jon said. He watched Sansa carefully to gauge her reaction to his mother having to cut his food for him.

“You seem to forget that I’ve watched you try for the last month,” Ellie said, her voice coloured with affection.

“How long until the cast comes off?” Sandor asked.

“Another month,” Jon said, pursing his lips. “I have to wrap it up when I have baths.  _ And  _ I broke my fingers.” He held up his hand with a wave. “But that’s only one week.”

“Your cast looks great,” Sansa said. “Did your friends sign it?”

“Yeah- hey, do you want to sign it too?”

“I’m sure she will, but wait until after lunch,” Ellie said.

“Alright,” Jon said, though his voice was laced with reluctance. “You can look at it now though.”

Without warning, he shoved his arm forwards across the table for Sansa to admire, brushing against a glass as he did so. The glass teetered for a moment before tipping over. Lightning-fast, Sandor thrust out his arm.

Sansa reached for the cup as Sandor did, their hands both colliding with the glass.The clink of Sandor’s ring on the glass made him freeze for an instant. A little water splashed onto his hand, dripping down his fingers, over the ring.  _ The ring. The bloody ring.  _ Sandor withdrew his hand quickly, wiping away the water onto his jeans. He almost didn’t dare to look at Ellie; the silence told him what he needed to know.  _ Fuck,  _ Sandor thoguht. He released a shaking breath and looked up, meeting Ellie’s gaze.

Sandor was met with his sister’s grey eyes, one shade lighter than his and widened by shock.  _ She saw,  _ Sandor thought.  _ Seven hells, how could I have forgotten tp take off the ring?  _ Ellie’s gaze flickered to Sansa, and Sandor followed it. He barely managed to bite back the slew of swear words that threatened to escape when he saw that Sansa had also forgotten to take off her ring too.

“Close call,” Sansa said to Jon, entirely oblivious. "Did they let you choose the colour?"  


“Gods,” Sandor whispered, as Sansa continued to chat to his nephews.

When Ellie raised her eyes hito his once more, Sandor winced. Her brows were pulled together, her mouth slightly open. It was the same look of betrayal she used to offer Gregor before his behaviour escalated to unforgivable. Her eyes were as hard as flint. There was no mistaking her response.  _ She knows. _


	30. Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, I hope you're doing well! I have so much work at the moment, probably because I'm spending 70% of my time reading sansan fics and 20% writing this one. The next chapter will also be Sansa's POV. I've got another five hour journey coming up, which means lots of planning/writing time (hopefully!) :) I hope you like this chapter; let me know what you think!

## Chapter Twenty-Nine: Truth

###  **Sansa**

There was a moment of stillness after the glass nearly fell, stretching long enough that Sansa knew she had missed something. She watched Sandor as best as she could for the remainder of the meal without making it obvious that she was doing so as she spoke to the children. Whatever had happened, the children were oblivious to it, and if not for Sandor sitting rigid beside her Sansa might almost be able to convince herself that it was paranoia. But no; something had changed. The air was thick with tension. _I’m not simply imagining this; there’s a stillness._ It was like a cloud descending over them, lightning inside, poised to strike.

After they had eaten dessert, Sansa rose to help Ellie load the dishwasher.

“I think that can wait.” It was the first time Ellie had spoken since the shift in tension, Sansa realised, and her voice was tense and clipped. Sandor appeared next to Sansa in an instant, making a barrier between her and Ellie. _Perhaps it’s merely a coincidence._ Sansa failed to make herself believe it.

“Of course,” Sansa murmured.

“Boys, why don’t you go and play with Sandor?”

Sandor’s gaze snapped up to his sister’s. Sansa could have sworn that she saw fear in the whites of his eyes.

“El-”

“I’d like to speak to Sansa.”

Sandor was _angry,_ Sansa realised, with a twinge of disappointment. _Does he not trust me enough to speak with Ellie?_

“I don’t mind that you wish to speak with me…” Sansa said, trying desperately to understand what had prompted this. _We gave nothing away, surely?_

Sandor clenched his jaw.

“Are you coming then?” Jon asked from the doorway.

Sandor turned and moved towards his nephews; as he walked past Sansa he ducked his head.

“She saw the rings,” he said. “She knows.”

Sansa spun around at his words, but Sandor was gone, the door slamming in his wake. Sansa turned back to Ellie, struggling to mask her horror. Now she understood. _Too late._

“We’ll go into the living room.”

Sansa trailed after Ellie, their solemn procession only serving to give her more time to panic. Her limbs were weighed down like lead, her mind abuzz and stuck on loop. _She knows. She knows we’re married and she’s furious, of course she is, because we neglected to tell her. Now she knows._ Beneath her shock, Sansa felt a twinge of entitlement. _Am I so unsuitable that she is_ _this_ _angry at discovering I'm Sandor's wife? Her sister in law. Am I truly such an abhorrent choice? Does she suspect that I’m from the society? Does she know how long we’ve been married? How did she-_ Sansa flinched as she remembered again what Sandor had said- _“she saw the rings”. Oh gods, she saw the rings and it’s all my fault. I was an utter fool, asking Sandor to keep his on when we visited the Elder Brother. This is all happening because I--_

“Sansa?”

Sansa realised that she was standing motionless in front of a sofa.

“Of course.” Her voice came out far quieter than intended. “Thank you.”

Sansa sat down. She struggled to control her breathing, let alone maintain her composure. She curled her hands into fists, setting them by her side. Her nails bit into her palm and she knew that the crescent shaped indents would take time to fade.

“For how long?” Ellie’s voice was low. Her eyes searched Sansa’s face. Sansa looked down and clenched her fists tighter still.

_I could lie,_ Sansa thought. _I could tell her we aren’t truly married, that this was a bet, that’s what Arya would tell me to do. But I can’t; she knows. It’s too late to play this off. She knows. She’s sharp, like Sandor, and I simply can’t bear lying to her._ Sansa had not decided how _much_ of the truth she would be telling, but she would begin with it, of that she was certain.

“A month,” Sansa blurted. “Just over a month now.”

“And how long before then were you together?”

Sansa bit her lip. _Exactly how long will this interrogation last?_ Again, Sansa found herself considering half-truths. _A private engagement, or not wanting people to know. I could craft an entire false history to explain this… Ellie might be angry, but with time she would surely understand. She would certainly be more likely to forgive Sandor if she did not know my origins._ Sandor had not told her much about his sister, but Sansa did remember enough to know that Ellie harboured a deep resentment towards the society. _And by extension, myself. Has she figured out where I’m from already? If I lied… Alternatively, I could…. No. No. I decided to tell the truth. I won’t back out. I’ll make sure Ellie understands that Sandor isn’t at fault._

Sansa took a breath.

“The truth,” Ellie interrupted, before she could speak.

Sansa felt herself sink further into the sofa; though the truth was what she intended, the tightness in Ellie’s voice crushed what little confidence she had left. Clearly Ellie noticed too, since she amended her previous demand.

“Please, Sansa.”

The touch of vulnerability in the plea dampened the wave of panic that threatened to overwhelm Sansa. She stared down at her hands, slowly unfurling her fingers.

“We met beforehand. Briefly. He… he saved me from- there was a-”

Sansa broke off and twisted her hands together, remembering how large Sandor’s hands were, how firm and gentle as they enveloped hers. She tugged her sleeves over her palm.

“I’m sorry,” Sansa said. She suddenly felt overwhelmingly tired. _I’m not even certain that I’m upset; do I want to cry? I don’t know_ _what_ _I’m feeling._ “Might I get some water?”

At Ellie’s nod, Sansa darted back into the kitchen. She poured herself a glass of water, downed the entirety in one go, and then leant over the sink. The tips of Sansa’s hair fell into the sink. She didn’t care. She breathed in deeply until a nudge at her calf brought her attention to the floor. Lady offered Sansa a wag of her tail, and Sansa dropped to her knees to give her a hug. _Sandor values honesty,_ she thought, her fingers tangled in her husky’s fur. _I know that he and his sister are close._ Stranger’s tail stuck out from under the table where he eagerly waited for scraps, ever hopeful despite the empty room. _I’ll try to strike a balance; I’ll tell the truth, but I’ll not risk compromising what they have._ With a final pat for Lady, Sansa left the dogs and returned to Ellie.

When she walked back into the living room, clutching her water for support, Ellie hadn’t moved. She looked at Sansa with a kind of forced neutrality; only the crease of her forehead told Sansa that she was…. something. _Is she angry? Concerned? Confused? Trying to figure me out?_ Sansa wasn’t certain, but she had managed to calm herself enough, the few seconds alone granting her fleeting clarity.

“It was after he inherited the estate. We met at a ball, and he saved me from-” She paused briefly. “-from someone who would have hurt me.”

Ellie’s frown deepened, but a flash in her eyes suggested to Sansa that perhaps she might know what she was trying to express.

“You’re from the society.”

“Yes.”

“He’s not selling the estate.”

“No.”

There was a pause.

“No,” Sansa said again. “We…. we live there.”

Ellie nodded; white bloomed over her clenched hands.

“It wasn’t meant to be permanent,” Sansa ventured. “None of it was. Not the estate, and not- not me.”

“Tell me everything. From the beginning.”

Sansa did. She spoke haltingly, with clumsy phrases and words that had to be wrenched from her mouth. She stumbled over the details of the ball until Ellie said that she understood.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“I’m lucky Sandor was there,” Sansa replied.

She carefully skipped over the details of the wedding night, jumping instead to Sandor bringing Lady home. After a while, Sansa forgot herself, forgot where she was, and all of the tension ebbed away as she recalled how they walked the dogs together, and how they shared lifts to work. She found herself rambling, with long sentences that seemed to wind into nothing more than a wistful smile as she remembered the little details.

“-and I know he doesn’t really even _like_ sweet foods- which, by the way, is just absurd- but he always tries whatever I make, and sometimes he brings some into work for Brienne to try. He even bought us a car, even though he doesn’t drive, and-”

“Is that why you’re with him?” Ellie interrupted. “Is it for the inheritance money?”

Sansa blinked. Ellie didn’t sound too angry, but she made no effort to disguise the genuine confusion that tainted her voice.

“No,” Sansa said firmly. “The br-”

“The bride price. You told me about that. But what about _now_ ? What’s keeping you together _now?_ If it isn’t money…. Is it the security? Having somewhere to live? Sansa, how old are you?” Her voice dropped, a little sadness seeping into her voice. Her words were close to a sigh. “My brother, he-”

“He’s amazing,” Sansa interrupted. She fiddled with the hem of her dress. When Ellie simply nodded, Sansa continued, “We spent the day together on our one month anniversary, and we made sushi-” Sansa knew she was likely blushing at the memory of the evening, and she hoped that the reason would escape Ellie’s shrewd gaze.

“Um, we made sushi,” Sansa said. “He prepared it all in advance, planned it all, because he knew that I like it. I know how he is- it’s only been a month, I understand, but I would never- he- the way he quietly makes an effort. Even with my sister, he puts up with her, which is no small feat.” Managing to stop herself before she rambled _too_ much, Sansa allowed herself a shrug. “He’s been good to me,” she finished.

“He’s a good man, though I’m not sure he believes so himself.”

Sansa nodded; _that’s something we can agree on at least._

“I thought you two might be good together,” Ellie admitted. “And there’s a reason for that. I’ve not seen him so relaxed, so at ease around anyone. He likes you. But to find out that you _are_ together, and in this manner-”

Sansa was hardly listening.

“We’re not together,” she managed to clarify.

“You’re _not_ togeth-”   
Sansa didn’t register Ellie’s shock, didn’t care that she had forgotten the rather crucial fact that they weren’t _technically_ a couple. She was stuck on _“he likes you”_. Despite herself, she couldn’t help but lean forwards with a tremulous smile.

“Truly?” She asked, interrupting Ellie’s confusion. “Do you truly think he likes me?”

Ellie tilted her head, examining Sansa closely.

“What does it matter? What do you even want? You’re _not_ a couple, but you-” The frown was back. “You sound like a couple.”

“Except for- that we don’t-” Sansa wondered if the yearning was obvious in her voice; _if not, I am surely blushing enough to make it known._ “I do like him. More than like him.”   
The silence that followed was absolute. Ellie leaned back, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment. She shook her head.

“Sansa, you can’t know that. You’ve had what- you’ve been living together for a month, perhaps you- it does sound as if you’ve gotten to know each other, but…” She trailed off.

Sansa wasn’t sure at what point she decided that she needed Ellie to believe her, but suddenly it was there, a burning urge to justify her feelings for Sandor. _I just_ _need_ _her to believe me._

“I know him,” Sansa insisted. “Ellie, he said- he said we could get an annulment, or a divorce. He said that we could simply be friends. We _are_ friends. If I wanted money or security, I could have it. I truly believe that he would keep his word. But I want more. I want him.”

“He clearly wants you too.” Ellie looked distinctly unhappy at that prospect. Sansa deflated a little.

“I understand that you don’t approve of me,” Sansa said quietly. “I’m young, and I’m from the society-”

“Do you still attend all their ridiculous events? The balls, the-”

“Once,” Sansa said. “Once since we’ve been married. It was yesterday, actually. I won’t be going again.”

“Why not?”

“I have no reason to.” Sansa’s voice was firm. “I’m certain of that now.”  
Ellie ran a hand over her face. The movement was so entirely reminiscent of Sandor, weary after a day of work, that Sansa cursed herself for the stress she had caused.

“We should have told you. I’m sorry.”

“No, Sansa, that’s on my brother. I’m sure he told you not to say anything.”

Sansa didn’t deny it.

“You’re not going to get a divorce, are you?”

Sansa bit her lip hard. _Don’t be foolish,_ she told herself. _Don’t push this. You_ _cannot_ _fracture their relationship._

“I don’t wish it,” Sansa said. “But if that’s what it takes for- for you and Sandor to- I don’t wish to be the cause of a rift between you.”

“I thought he would tell me,” Ellie said. Though she was smiling, it was a bitter smile, holding a host of sadness, and a slight half-shrug did nothing to dispel her obvious feelings.

“I think he feared that you’d be angry.”

“Well, I am. Or was. Sansa, I don’t know. You’d tell me to forgive him, wouldn’t you?”

Sansa nodded.

“I suppose I ought to speak with him. Perhaps not today. I’ll speak with him tomorrow, or I’ll message him. But first... I wonder….yes...” Ellie looked up; the stare she offered Sansa was one of blatant evaluation, and it suddenly clicked.

“Do you truly think we could?” Sansa allowed excitement to colour her tone.

“You’re well suited for each other, I can’t deny that.”

Sansa was grinning.

“I I would never force a divorce on you. But I _do_ want a redo of the wedding after you get together,” Ellie said, her smile softening at the sight of Sansa’s glee. “I’m still angry you kept this from me, and you were right to think that I wouldn’t approve of how it started. I don’t. But it seems to have gone further now.”

“Definitely.”

“I’m scared for him,” Ellie admitted. “And happy, and angry, and- ah, Sansa, you’re not to break his heart, alright?”

“I won’t,” Sansa said. “I swear to you, I won’t.”

***********************************************************

Sansa sat and waited for Sandor in the car as he spoke with his sister. She and Ellie had parted on good, albeit slightly awkward, terms, but now Sansa’s nerves were running wild. She watched Sandor as he approached the car, deciphering his stress with ease. The slow walk, the hands shoved into his pockets. He would have looked relaxed if not for his slightly raised shoulders. _He doesn’t seem angry. Would he tell me if he was angry? Perhaps he’s waiting until we’re home before talking about it._ A glance at Sandor’s clouded expression told Sansa that he was deep in thought. _I wonder what Ellie said to him._

When Sandor remained lost in thought after they arrived home, still showing no interest in speaking to her, Sansa began to doubt herself again. _Gods, perhaps I’m wrong, perhaps he_ _does_ _resent me; it_ _is_ _my fault, after all. I shouldn’t have insisted that we keep the rings on. I ought to explain everything to him- I trust that Ellie wouldn’t try to manipulate us, but did she tell him_ _everything_ _?_

“Post.”

Sansa took the envelope from Sandor’s hand by instinct, confusion overriding anxiety. She had forgotten to reply to her mother’s previous letter, and from the impeccable handwriting it seemed her patience had finally run out. Sansa opened the letter and read:

_Dearest Sansa,_

_It has not escaped my notice that I have not heard from you for over a week now. I do hope that nothing is amiss and that you are well. I will be coming to visit for the afternoon on Tuesday. I look forward to seeing you._

_With love,_

_Mother_

“You’re shaking.”  
Sansa jumped, not realising that Sandor had remained close after handing her the letter. His genuine concern only served to overwhelm her further.

“I’m sorry,” Sansa said. “It’s my fault that Ellie saw the rings.”

He dismissed her concerns quickly.

“We both forgot. It had to happen sometime.”

“She isn’t angry with you, is she? I tried to be careful; I don’t want to be the cause of anything coming between you.”

Sandor took a step closer to her.

“It’s not ideal,” he said. “And she’s… she’s clearly, _ah-_ you saw how she was. Not happy, but she’ll get there.”

“I’m sorry,” Sansa said again.

“Don’t be, little bird. I’m glad she knows.”

“You are?”

Sandor met her questioning gaze.

“Yeah,” he said. “Wasn’t the best way for it to come out, but it’s easier not to pretend, right?”

Sansa closed the distance between then. The letter crumpled where it was pressed between their bodies, momentarily forgotten in her hand.

“Anything important?”

Sansa snapped out of her reverie.

“Oh,” she said, her mood instantly plummeting once more as she realised what Sandor was referring to. “It’s my mother. She’s coming to visit on Tuesday. I’ll have to change my shift.”

“Can’t you ask her to come another day?”

Sansa just shook her head. _She wouldn’t listen, and what excuse could I give? No doubt she’ll have endless things to complain about; gods, I’ll have to make sure everything’s tidy, and do I have time to bake? Tuesday is only two days away; what if Myranda is not able to move my shift? What will I tell mother?_

“Sansa?”

Sansa looked up.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Sandor asked. The blend of uncertainty and genuine concern in the rasp of his voice made Sansa reach for him.

Sandor’s arms found their way around her, easily crushing her close. Sansa wrapped her arms around her husband, resting her head on his chest. She felt Sandor’s lips brush the top of her head. 

_We’ll be fine,_ Sansa decided. The worst of it was over; all she had to do was brave her mother, and then everything could go back to normal.


	31. Family Matters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! I hope you're doing well. We’ve recently reached over 650 kudos on this story; thank you so much for that, it feels like a huge number and honestly means the world. I’m so happy to see that people are enjoying this.
> 
> It was tricky to get the balance right in this chapter, and I’m sorry that Sandor doesn’t feature. I though this was a long-overdue conversation, however. Also, we aren’t too far off from our couple finally getting together (I won’t say exactly when, but it isn’t too far in the future!) Thank you for all of your support so far; I look forward to hearing what you think of this chapter.

## Chapter Thirty: Family Matters

###  **Sansa**

“You’re jittery again.”

Sansa closed her eyes briefly, trying not to clench her jaw- Myranda would surely notice if she did.

“I know,” she said instead.

“ _And_ you moved your shift. Again.”

_I tried to,_ Sansa thought, before chiding herself for her bitterness. _Myranda was kind enough to move my afternoon shift. Without more warning, she could hardly have found someone to take the morning._

“Thank you for managing to move my shift.”

“You know that’s not what I want,” Myranda said.

“What _do_ you want?” Sansa asked. The slight edge to her voice only served to widen Myranda’s grin further.

“Last time you were like this you were going on your date with that man- that man, who, by the way, you absolutely did _not_ describe correctl--”

“It’s not a date.” Sansa cut her off. “My mother’s coming to visit.”

“Well, you’d better go then. You’re past time.”

Sansa bit back a slew of curse words and resisted the urge to glare at Myranda. _I must not let my nerves translate into anger._

“You’re right,” she said, with forced calmness. “Thank you for letting me know.”

Myranda snorted at her.

“Good luck with your mother!” She called, as Sansa hurried to leave, almost forgetting to take off her apron. _I may need that luck._ It was only two, but when her mother said ‘afternoon’, Sansa was sure that she likely meant two thirty, which meant that Sansa was going to be late. _Late to my own home. The home that my mother does not realise I’m currently away from._

Sansa had begun the day almost optimistically- yes, there was trepidation there, since she had not seen her mother since becoming a married woman over a month ago now- but it was her _mother._ They were one and the same; everyone always said so. But now, as Sansa drove home, her hopefulness rapidly disintegrated, every passing minute stripping back her layers until she was a bundle of nerves. She had been hoping to change out of her trousers upon arriving home, and she thought that she might just have time to prepare a light lunch… _No such luck._ As she pulled up, she could see her mother standing by the door. A glance at her mother’s pinned up waves had Sansa anxiously running a hand through her own hair, hurriedly taking out her loose plait.

With a deep breath, Sansa got out of the car. Her mother gave her a once over as she approached, and Sansa just _knew_ that it was the trousers that were going to earn her unwanted attention. Her mother said nothing. _How long will that last?_ The unwarranted thought was instantly met by a beratement, and Sansa’s guilt only increased when her mother stepped forwards and wrapped her into a hug. _She did nothing but purse her lips, and why shouldn’t she? I_ _am_ _late, after all, and I must look frightful._

“I'm sorry I'm late,” Sansa said. She spoke again before her mother could ask where she had been. “Please, let’s go in.”

“Oh,” her mother said, as they walked through to the kitchen. “I see you're still living in this same area.”

She stressed the word ‘same’ as if it served as a synonym for undersible words like _small_.

“Would you mind if I made myself lunch?” Sansa asked.

“Of course not. This kitchen has so much potential- if only it was a little bigger.”

_Was that a compliment or an insult?_ Sansa decided that the best response was neutrality, so she just made a vague hum of agreement and turned around, fashioning herself an easy ham and cheese baguette as her mother perched at the kitchen island. It wasn’t until she heard the clearing of a throat that Sansa turned around.

“I would love a drink,” Sansa’s mother said.

“Oh, yes! I’m sorry.” _I’m messing up already._ Opening the cupboard did little to assuage her worries; it only confirmed what Sansa already knew. They had English breakfast tea, coffee, and hot chocolate. Sansa wasn’t even certain that they had milk in the fridge. She busied herself with the kettle before speaking.

“Would tea be alright?” Sansa asked. _I would love a coffee right now._

“Actually,” her mother said, her hand darting into her handbag, “I brought you something.”

She slid a packed of dried rosebuds over the counter.

_It’s a gift,_ Sansa thought. _I don’t_ _need_ _coffee. She’s being kind; this is not some veiled criticism._

“Thank you.” Sansa said. She opened the cupboards and tried to find matching mugs that weren’t faded or chipped.

“Will we be sitting at the table? The wood is wonderful.”

“Th-”

Her mother didn’t seem to hear.

“Are you planning on getting matching chairs, or moving it into a separate dining room?”

Sansa bit her lip. _I thought the chairs matched rather well._

“I think having it joint with the kitchen works for us for now,” she said, after a pause. It was enough to appease her mother, who moved her assessment to the window.

“The curtains are lovely,” her mother said. “They suit the bay windows.”

“Yes, it does feel so light in here, doesn’t it?” Sansa was about to tell her mother that she had made the curtains herself, but she was already continuing.

“It’s just a shame about the view.”

_Oh._

“I think we’ll sit in the living room.”

Sansa sighed heavily as she followed her mother into the living room. _Mother isn’t wrong,_ she thought. _Though she_ _is_ _being rather judgemental, I can hardly say that the judgement is not warranted. She isn’t wrong about the garden being a state, and this rosebud tea_ _is_ _lovely._ Yet Sansa found herself unable to shake the trepidation from her bones. _Is it not a little unfair to judge our home? We have not yet been living here for two months…._

Another slight frown was directed at Sansa’s plate as she sat down. _What is so terrible about a ham and cheese baguette?_ Sansa wanted to shout. Or perhaps it was not her plate at all- perhaps it was her trousers again, or the way she failed to maintain her posture when sinking into the sofa….. Sansa sat up straighter, once again lamenting that she had been too late to get changed.

“I heard that you saw the girls at the weekend.”

_News travels fast._

“That’s right.”

“Were you well that day?”

“I was,” Sansa admitted. “Though I fear I was not able to stay for as long as I would have liked.”

“Oh?”

“I was rather tired from the week, and I had prior commitments with Sandor’s family.”

“The week?” Sansa’s mother echoed. “Have you been- are you _working_? Is that why you’re wearing _that_?”

“Mother,” Sansa said, with a forced smile. “I still wear dresses, truly. It's simply easier to wear trousers at work.”

“What manner of work is this?”

_The manner of which I enjoy,_ Sansa thought. _She would be horrified with the girls like Myranda, but I find that I rather like her and her friends._

Her mother continued, “I hope this isn’t-”

Something in Sansa’s gaze must have shifted because her mother suddenly broke off.

“Isn’t _what_ , mother?” She could practically _hear_ the unspoken complaints about class and reputation and-

“Don’t take that tone with me.”

Sansa straightened her spine.

“You’re judging my choices before you even know what they are.”

_Is her ulterior motive simply to belittle and humiliate me?_

There was a long pause.

“I work at a coffee shop,” Sansa said finally.

At this her mother looked up and offered her a terse smile.

“And you enjoy it?”

_She’s trying,_ Sansa told herself. _I should be more patient. I only wish that she might approve of the life I’m making for myself._

“I do, yes. I’ve been doing some sewing as well.”

“Yes, I have noticed the curtains in here, too,” her mother said. “They’re very nice. Did you make them?”

“I did,” Sansa said, thankful for the shift of topic. It was easy enough to chatter about sewing, and Sansa vowed that she would take on board her mother’s advice, putting it to good use. A few ideas were already simmering in her mind, though Sansa felt slightly shy at the prospect of putting them forward to her mother. Perhaps her apprehension stemmed from the fact that her mother was yet to bring up Sansa’s husband, let alone mention his name. To suddenly confess that she was making him clothes felt oddly intimate. Sansa decided it was safer to skirt around the topic of Sandor for now.

“I must lend you my book of patterns,” her mother said.

“Thank you. I would really like that.” _This is how things should be._ Sansa let a little hope rise in her chest.

“I would love to see your next projects once they’re finished, Sansa.”

They shared a warm smile.

“I was considering making the garden the next project,” Sansa admitted. Her mother made no effort to hide her relief at that, and eagerly offered Sansa advice. Her excitement grew at the idea of suggesting it to Sandor. They moved easily onto more mundane topics, discussing how Sansa was finding cooking. She decided not to tell her mother that Sandor cooked just as often as she did. Though she felt guilty, Sansa dared not risk ruining their conversation. Her mother told her about the macaroons that she had made at the weekend.

“I would have brought you some, if there had been any spare.”

“I’ll have to try making them myself on a day I don’t have work.”

Sansa cursed herself the moment the words left her mouth.

“How much time do you have- are you overworked, tired?”

“No, mother.” _There it was again: work._ Sansa berated herself for having brought it up again. “Having a job was my choice. I’m doing well.”

“And your... husband? He’s doing well too?”

“Yes,” Sansa said. She made no move to elaborate.

“It must be difficult,” her mother said. “Such a physical job for a man of his age…”

“He’s not even thirty.”

“Are his hours long?”

Sansa made the mistake of admitting that _yes,_ Sandor's hours were long, and that she wished she saw more of him.

“That’s a shame. Your father always did have time for home. Especially once we had you children.”

_I’m no longer a child,_ Sansa thought. _But my parents are still my parents._ She tried to artfully divert the conversation.

“How is Dad?” She asked. “And Bran, Rickon?”

“Everyone is well. Bran is excelling at his studies.”

Sansa nodded her encouragement.

“Though,” her mother said. “He has heard about a boarding school and has been near-constant in asking to attend. I’m not sure what’s gotten into him.”

_She seems anxious about Bran growing up._

“Does the school offer day teaching as well as boarding? Perhaps he might begin with that?”

Her mother remained unconvinced. Sansa moved the conversation onto Rickon instead. Her mother laughed lightly.

“Rickon is… his usual self.”

Sansa tried not to frown. Rickon _did_ seem a little wild, and the story her mother told was less than comforting. Though she tried to play it off and maintain her composure, Sansa was not as blind to her mother’s feelings as she seemed to assume. There was the unmistakable tilt of anxiety in her mother’s voice, and the story of smashed plates and damaged wallpaper was difficult to laugh away. Sansa could see the stress that it was bringing her mother.

“Perhaps you might all come over for an evening,” she suggested. _I could at least take everyone off her hands for one evening._

“That would be lovely, when you’ve done the place up a little.”

Sansa bit her tongue. _She’s stressed about the boys,_ she reminded herself. _I must not be so hasty in condemning her._

“I'm sure Rickon will grow out of his behaviour,” Sansa said. “And Bran will excel in any environment. You mustn't worry.”

Sansa's mother gave her a tender smile and laid a hand over Sansa’s on the sofa, trapping it under her own.

“Mothers always worry,” she said. There was no missing the suggestion that her voice held. Sansa returned her smile with one of her own, but it felt tight.

“You'll understand when _you're_ a mother.” At this, she finally moved her hand from Sansa’s, only to reappear with a small package from her handbag. She must have missed the look of shock that crossed Sansa’s features.

“It's vitamin D,” she said, holding out a small box. “To keep you both healthy; especially now that winter’s coming, you-”

“Us both?”

“You and the baby,” her mother said, as if it was obvious. 

“Mother!”

_This time she really has overstepped. I'm not imagining this._

“Mother,” Sansa said again, trying to keep her voice from becoming shrill. “I'm not pregnant.”

“Are you quite certain? It’s been-”

“A month.” Sansa set her jaw firmly. “I’m sure.”

Her mother nodded grimly.

“I see,” she said. “Well, here.”

Another tense moment passed as she brought out a second box.

“It's folic acid. It can aid with fertility and duri-”

Sansa was already shaking her head. Her mother took a deep breath as if the next words were hard to say. 

“There's no shame in not being able to conce-”

“There's no shame in _any_ of my decisions,” Sansa declared.

“Decisions?”

“Yes, mother. Thank you for your - willingness to help. I will be sure to ask you if I am in need of this.”

_"If?"  
_

Sansa hesitated. It was hard to ignore the horror in her mother’s voice, and denying her grandchildren outright felt oddly selfish. _I_ _do_ _want children,_ Sansa thought. _Is there any harm in relenting and admitting as such?_ A deep feeling nagged at her, pressing questions that she was unable to smother. _Don’t you wish to know what she will say if you deny it? What if you_ _didn’t_ _want children?_

“What if I don’t wish to-”

“Sansa,” her mother said. “I know you. You’re your mother’s daughter. It’s your husband, isn’t it? I’m rather surprised; given his age, I would expect that-”

“That’s enough.” Sansa continued before her mother could retort. “You dare to judge _my husband_ \- a man whose name you seem unable to say- and you- you-” She took a steadying breath. “Any decisions that my husband and I may or not be making are decisions that will be made together. I may inform you of them, but I will not be allowing you to make such decisions for me.”

Sansa ducked her gaze after speaking. She took a sip of her tea; it had gone cold. Despite finally speaking her mind, the flicker of pride was doused by an overwhelming sadness. _If mother cannot respect this….._

“Thank you for letting me know.”

Her mother’s voice was like ice. Sansa wondered if she had fractured their bond; a brazen side to her decided that if she had, it was her mother’s inability to compromise that had caused it. _But have_ _I_ _trie_ _d hard enough to compromise?_

“I do not know when I will have children,” Sansa said. “At some point, yes, I _do_ want them. It’s not something I have yet discussed with Sandor.”

Her mother gave her a long look.

“I would like to be a grandmother before I become too ancient.” There was a softness to her mother’s words, a grumble though they were, that made Sansa relax somewhat.

“You’ve not even gone grey yet,” she said.

Silence fell between them.

“My little girl,” Sansa’s mother said. It seemed to almost be a lament, but Sansa replied anyway.

“Not so little,” she pointed out, careful to keep her voice as soft as her mother’s. “Nearly twenty.”

“What will you be doing to celebrate?”

_Hopefully spending the day with Sandor,_ Sansa thought. _Though it_ _would_ _be nice to see everyone...._

“We could have a gathering- something small, perhaps. I’m not sure.”

“You must reply to my letters so that we might arrange something.”

Sansa agreed. She spoke again before another silence could settle.

“Sandor will be back soon,” she said. “I expect that he may be tired after work.”

“I’ll leave you to make dinner.”

Sansa didn’t tell her mother that they would be getting takeout.

“And I’ll be sure to send the sewing patterns to you.”

“Thank you.”

Sansa led her mother to the door. There was a stillness as she opened the door for her, despite the wind that swirled eagerly inside. Sansa held her breath.

“Goodbye, dear.”

With that, her mother was gone.


	32. Visitors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone- I hope you're all doing well. Thank you so much for over 20,000 hits- wow, that really is a huge amount! I am so grateful to you all for reading this and for being so patient with my slightly-odd upload schedule at the moment. :) This chapter is from Sandor's POV and (I think) the next one will be from Sansa's. I hope you enjoy this chapter; the next few will focus solely on their interactions together, I think.

## Chapter Thirty-One: Visitors

###  **Sandor**

“Oh, Sandor, it seems we’ve done the quantities incorrectly.”

Sansa was right. They were baking two flavours of muffins, and had halved the recipe accordingly. Except it seemed that they instead of _halving_ the recipe, they had doubled it. Twice. Now they had four lots of muffin batter, so much that they had run out of cases. Sandor blamed Sansa- or more specifically, her skirt. Each time she moved, the little skater skirt would dance upwards, as if trying to distract him by _almost_ offering a glimpse of her underwear. Then there were the seemingly endless touches, from brushing past him as she moved to her fingers lingering on his as he handed her things. The still of her hand as it brushed against his was enough to send a thrill shooting through him from his heart to his cock. _Gods, does she have any idea how arousing she is?_ At least he wasn’t wearing tight trousers.

“What about the excess?” Sandor asked, as Sansa put another tray in the oven.

“We’ll have to eat it, of course.”

Sandor passed Sansa a spoon for an excuse to touch her; he was rewarded not only with her fingers ghosting over his, but also with the little sigh of contentment she made, accompanied by the almost-moan as she tried the uncooked mixture that had Sandor’s eyes widening.

“Mmm, Sandor, it’s good. Here, you’ve got to try.”

Before he could grab another spoon, Sansa had double-dipped hers, holding it up with a smile that looked just a touch too innocent. His raised eyebrow only served to make her giggle, and she held the spoon up higher. Ever obedient, Sandor dipped his head and took the spoon in his mouth. The batter was, as he had expected, too sweet for his taste, though there was some hint of flavour beneath it that made the flavour more than tolerable. Sansa would say it was the sourness of the lemons; Sandor wondered if in fact he was tasting _her_.

After taking the spoon out of Sandor’s mouth, Sansa glanced at it.

“You missed a bit,” she remarked. She ran her finger down the underside of the spoon before placing it into her mouth. Her bright eyes never left Sandor’s. He took a step forward.

A faint knock made them both turn to the door.

“Oh,” Sansa said. She cleared her throat, quickly discarding the spoon in the sink. “That must be Margaery. She said she may come round to drop off some fabric.”

Sansa left him in the kitchen. Sandor heard an exclamation of surprise and more footfalls than he had anticipated. Sansa reappeared a moment later, her arms laden with fabric, followed by Margaery and Bronn. Bronn took in the kitchen.

“She’s got you baking, I see.”

“It smells wonderful,” Margaery said. “What is it?”

“Muffins,” Sansa said. “They should be ready soon if you’d like- that is, if you’re staying.”

_So they just decided to bloody invite themselves here?_ Though Sansa's surprise was as obvious as his own, Sandor couldn't deny that she looked happy, spreading out the armful of fabric onto the table. As Margaery instantly gravitated towards the curtains that Sansa had made, Sandor led Bronn in the living room.

“Gods, you’re ridiculous. The both of you are wearing grey,” Bronn said. “And _baking?_ It’s just too domestic here. Positively suffocating.”

“Leave it alone,” Sandor grumbled. He knew that his words lacked heat; Bronn was right.

“It’s tidy and all too. She keeps you in check.”

“She does,” Sandor admitted. “It’s been a long while since I ate out of a tin. You’re alright, I take it?”

“‘Course; got Margie, got the job, what else is there to want?”

“About that.”

“Which part?”

“The job?”

“What about it?”

“I want to quit.”

Bronn didn’t miss a beat. “To do this place up, isn’t it?”

“That’s right. I’ve not talked to Sansa about it yet- we mentioned it a while back, but I thought I might have a look around first.” Sandor refused to say what he really meant- that going around the estate with Sansa meant running the risk of her seeing him panic if the memories became too much and smothered him.

“When?”

“What?”

“When are you going to have a look?” Bronn asked. “We can do it now.”

“Alright.”

Sandor grabbed a torch on the way.

“No lights? How much of this has electricity?”

“All of it, but I don’t know how much of it works. Don’t want to risk it.”

Sandor fought to keep his hand steady as he held the touch, the beam of light leading the way down the dark corridors. They began upstairs, and Bronn made no comment on how quickly Sandor ran up, taking them two at a time. Nor did he say anything when Sandor paused at the top, leaning against a wall for support. He simply nodded.

“Attic?”

As Sandor tried to pull down the ladder for the attic, he found that it fell straight out, landing with a clatter and a cloud of dust.

“Guess we’ll come back to that,” Bron said. “Bedrooms?”

“Right,” Sandor muttered. He gave the bedrooms a quick once over, not focusing perhaps as well as he should have.

“This one?” Bronn asked.

_Gregor’s old room._

“I’ll look at it later.”

By the time they made it downstairs Sandor had calmed himself down somewhat.

“Down here, then?”

Sandor nodded his assent and they investigated the ground floor.

“Another kitchen? What do you have two for?”

“We’re in the guest suite at the moment,” Sandor explained. “Done it up enough for ourselves, but we’ve talked a bit about doing up all of this.”

“It’s quite the project.”

“I’ve got the money to make a start.”

“You’ll have a team?”

“Right.”

There was a pause. In the torch’s beam, dust motes danced upwards from where they had been disturbed.

“You could join,” Sandor said.

Bronn shook his head- he had clearly been expecting the suggestion.

“When you’re off the ground, offering me a pay rise, then I’ll join you.”

Sandor just nodded. He knew that Bronn was motivated by money, unlikely to take such a risk.

“You asked Brienne?” Bronn suggested.

“Not yet, but I will.”

“What damage are you predicting?”

“We’ll need a full evaluation but there shouldn’t be much structural damage other than the usual from time.”

Clearly he had tempted fate, because the unmistakably musty smell plaguing the next room suggested otherwise.

“Fuck,” Sandor muttered.

“Better hope it isn’t dry rot.”

“I’ll bet there’s lead paint as well,” Sandor muttered, a section of peeling wallpaper catching his attention. He made a mental note of the room in his mind.

Sandor switched off the torch as they came to the better lit rooms; the sunlight streamed through the windows and bathed the rooms in a golden light, giving the place more beauty than it deserved. Sandor and Bronn stepped into the old library. As Bronn checked over the bay windows, Sandor found himself drawn to the corner of the room. A beam of light sent a flash careening off a mirror propped up against the bookshelves. With a jolt, Sandor realised why the mirror was familiar. The oval frame was still as rusted as it had been throughout his childhood, and the same smudges blurred its surface. The mirror had been old for as long as he could remember, its surface slowly growing more marred throughout his childhood, rusk sneaking onto it like freckles.

Sandor knelt down, disregarding the layer of dust that no doubt would find its way onto his jeans. He reached out a hand to brush against the surface of the mirror and suddenly he was a child again, stopped dead by his reflection. At twenty-eight, he could barely remember his face without his scars- that didn’t mean he liked them, but the years had worn him down from utter dismay to a steady resentment and deep-rooted sense of loss. But he could remember two decades prior, when he had never seen his ruined face, only touched it tentatively through bandages as the skin healed. No one had offered him a mirror since the “accident”, and he should have taken that as a sign, but he failed to do so. Ellie had never looked at him any differently, and until he saw himself, Sandor wondered if it was really so bad after all.

He could remember the day clearly, burned as deeply into his memory as the ridges and crevices were on his face. Gregor was away from home, and Ellie had suggested that they play hide and seek. It would be good to get him some practice being up on his feet again, she had said. Neither of them mentioned the other reason- making a game of it meant that they were quicker to get to their hiding places when Gregor was looking for them.

Sandor had run into the library, intending to crawl into the little storage cupboard hidden near one of the bookshelves, but then he had noticed the mirror.

“It doesn’t matter what you look like,” Ellie had assured him, but that was _before_ , when they weren’t sure what the damage would be. Now Sandor’s bandages had come off. Ellie must have missed this mirror when she moved them all; she said their father must have taken them somewhere to be cleaned, but he rarely cleaned anything, Sandor knew that. Perhaps that was another clue that he had missed, another warning sign that ought to have prepared him for the monster that now faced him.

Sandor had cried out upon seeing himself, screwing his eyes shut for the briefest of moments and turning away. _It isn’t real._ When he re-opened his eyes his breathing hitched anew. Waves of horror sent his body shaking, but he was unable to tear his eyes from the reflection. Raised, angry ridges covered one side of his face, tugging it into asymmetry. The ruin began with his hair- or rather, the slight lack of it one side, and extended as far as his shoulder. But it was his face, so cruelly ruined, that Sandor kept coming back to. Fat tears rolled down his cheeks, running at different speeds as they caught in the crevices that marred his features. Sandor had never considered himself handsome- hells, he had never much considered his appearance at all- but he was not foolish enough to hope. Not now. The angry red lines searing across his skin showed him the truth.

“I’m hideous.”

_“Sandor.”_

He hadn’t heard his sister approach, and he paid her no attention. Sandor reached out a hand and pressed a finger against the mirror, tracing the unfamiliar lines on his face. Even now, with the mirror smooth and cool to the touch, he was hideous; how much worse was it to feel the _texture?_

“Stop that.”

His sister tried to stand between Sandor and the mirror, her hand reaching for his. Sandor flinched away from her and stepped backwards.

“Don’t-” He said. His breath caught in his throat again, the words coming out ragged. “Don’t look at me.”

“No,” Ellie said. “No, it’s alright, I-”

“How _could_ you? Why did you play like nothing was wrong? You didn’t warn me!”

“It’s a new wound, the colour will fade somewhat.”

A strangled sound escaped Sandor’s throat.

“I’m ruined.”

“You are _not._ ”

Despite his protests, Ellie swept Sandor into a hug. She held him close until he stopped squirming, until his tears subsided and his breathing evened out. It was easier to think more logically when wrapped in her embrace, when he couldn’t see himself. By the time Ellie finally released him, Sandor had devised a plan.

“No one can ever see me,” Sandor decided. “Only you.”

“Don’t be silly.”

Ellie smoothed his hair off his forehead. Sandor’s eyes prickled with tears once more.

“No one can see me,” he insisted.

“You can’t hide away forever.”

“They’ll hate me. _I_ hate me.”

“Well I _love_ you. Anyone that doesn’t take the time to know you is stupid, and I’ll tell them so.”

Sandor thought about that for a while. Yes, Ellie loved him, but she was his _sister_ , and they were united against Gregor. What about the rest of the world? What about-

“No girl will love me.”

“You don’t need to worry about that yet.”

“Or ever.”

“No,” Ellie insisted. “You’ll find her one day. She’ll love you for the same reasons _I_ love you- because you’re kind, and loving, and brave. She will love you just as you are, and you’ll love her too, and everything will be alright.”

Sandor tilted his head upwards, seeking out his sister’s eyes. _At least our eyes are still the same._ “Promise?”

“I promise.”

Her promise had come back to Sandor the previous week, after Ellie found out about their marriage. She had spoken with Sansa for the better part of an hour, but told Sandor she didn’t want to speak with him for long.

“I need time to process this,” Ellie said. Her jaw was tight.

Sandor fumbled for a way to make her understand.

“Ellie,” he said. “It’s her.”

“What?”

“Sansa’s the girl you said would-” _Love_ was still a word Sandor struggled with. “She’s the girl you said I would find,” he said instead. “I found her.”

“‘ _Found_ her’? Sandor, how you met was not-”

“I know I acted fast. I didn’t think.”

“You should have come to me.”

“You’d have told me to leave all that society bullshit alone.”

“Of course I would.”

Sandor had been expecting that. But still, that didn’t take away from the sting of his sister’s words. 

“I don’t regret it.” Sandor said. He struggled to keep his voice even. “So you don’t approve of her then.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“So y-”

“I don’t _know,_ Sandor. Can’t I be angry at you _and_ happy for you at the same time?”

“Happy for me?”

“I’m not horrible,” Ellie said. “I like Sansa- she’s, well, she’s wonderful, isn’t she?”

Sandor shoved his hands in his pockets, feeling strangely awkward.

“She is.”

Judging by the wry smile that crossed Ellie’s face, he may as well have said he loved her.

“I want to talk about this properly,” she said.

Sandor nodded. He owed Ellie that much.

“But not now; I won’t keep Sansa waiting, and I need a few days. I’ll call you during the week.”

Sandor took a step towards the door.

“Oh, and Sandor?”

He turned around.

“It’s mutual.”

And for some unfathomable reason, Sandor couldn’t find it in his heart to refute her claim.

“Sandor? You listening?”

Sandor turned around so swiftly that he nearly lost his balance, forgetting that he was still kneeling in front of the mirror. He stood up, his attention snapping to his friend.

“They’re outside,” Bronn said. He nodded at the windows.

Trying to swallow back his reluctance, Sandor joined his friend and together they stared out at the overgrown mess that had ceased functioning as a garden two decades prior. His heart stilled as he raked his eyes over the clusters of weeds and wild grass to where Sansa stood, halfway to the line of trees that separated the garden from the rest of the grounds. She had changed into trousers and was speaking with Margaery, gesturing to the side of the house. As her hand swept in a wide arc, she seemed to pause. Then she was looking at them through the window, raising her hand in a wave. Sandor wondered if she had any idea that she stood nearly exactly where he had been burned. _Of course she doesn’t, you bloody fool. She doesn’t even know how it happened…._

“Let’s go back,” Sandor said. He’d had enough of the past for one day.

Sansa and Margaery traipsed back towards the kitchen as well, so by the time Sandor and Bronn had meandered back through the hallways, the girls had appeared in the kitchen. Sandor took the first batch of muffins out of the oven. He tried not to laugh as he caught sight of Sansa’s hands, but she followed his gaze and raised them with an embarrassed smile.

“Gods,” Sansa said, inspecting the dirt that coated her hands in a rich brown. “I had better wash my hands before I eat.”

Acting on instinct, and momentarily completely forgetting about Bronn and Margaery, Sandor reached for a muffin and held it out. Sansa stepped forwards and took a bite.

“Perfect,” she said.

Sandor didn’t need to look at Bronn to know that he was smirking.

“Might we take a few with us?”

The light blush that crept across Sansa’s cheeks suggested that Sansa had forgotten about their visitors too.

“Oh, of course.”

“We had better leave you to enjoy each other’s company,” Margaery said, with a sly smile. “I’m sure you have a lot to discuss.”

Sandor waited until they left before turning back to Sansa.

“A lot to discuss?” He echoed.

“Yes,” Sansa said. “Here.”

She led Sandor to the windows; he tried to avoid looking out at the grass, but his eyes were drawn there, his muscles growing rigid.

“I thought that perhaps we might tend to the garden a little; not all the grounds, but up to the trees.”

Sansa raised a hand to gesture at the point where the weeds blended into the line of trees. “Margaery brought us a rose that we might plant outside, and we could even find some plants to keep indoors, or-”

She broke off, realising that Sandor was still fixated on that one point. Sandor sucked in a huge breath, finally tearing his eyes from the garden.

“Sorry,” Sandor muttered.

“Do you think it a foolish idea?”

_I think it’s a fucking terrifying idea._

“We can do that.”

“Are you sure you’d like to?”

The way she looked up at him, trying her best to evaluate the strange way he acted sent guilt mingling with the trepidation already running through his veins. _I should tell her._ The thought came so naturally that Sandor barely noticed it. _I should tell her._ It held the undercurrents of panic, the inevitable stress of articulating his worst fears. But still, he could not shake the thought. Not because he _had_ to tell her, nor because she might ask- he knew she wouldn’t push him. _I want to tell her because I want her to know me._ There; that was all there was to it. Before Sandor could overthink it, he spoke.

“Sansa,” he said. “I want to tell you something.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again! I didn't want to waste too much time at the top but essentially I've been bedbound for the last week or so. It seems that my disability may be progressive- I'm not entirely sure but I just wanted to let you all know (I'm not sure why); this shouldn't change much though. I'm still managing to write, albeit slowly, and I want to thank you all for the support- especially comments- it's so motivating and keeps my spirits up. I still feel too young to feel this way physically, but I do truly love this community; it's become something of a solace for me, especially during the nightmare of 2020. I hope November treats you all well.


	33. Trauma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Thanks so much for the awesome response to the last chapter- I'm happy that so many of you were excited for this one. It's been a long process and quite nerve-wracking. Some of the lines are taken from GRRM, I've not marked them out but you'll likely know which they are (is this allowed? I don't know fanfic disclaimer rules- please let me know if it's wrong!). I used my brief study of psychology and my own experiences of trauma to write it, so hopefully it's somewhat realistic.
> 
> I hope you like the chapter; I can't wait to hear what you think :)
> 
> Oh, and there's obviously a trigger warning for recounting trauma.

## Chapter Thirty-Two: Trauma

###  **Sansa**

Sansa led Sandor to the windows; he tried to avoid looking out at the grass, but his eyes seemed drawn there, his muscles growing rigid.

“I thought that perhaps we might tend to the garden a little; not all the grounds, but up to the trees.”

Sansa raised a hand to gesture at the point where the weeds blended into the line of trees. The garden was wild, but held a certain beauty, and so much potential. “There’s the rose that Margaery brought us, and we could even find some plants to keep indoors, or-”

She broke off, realising that Sandor was still fixated on that one point. She watched as Sandor’s gaze grew slightly vacant. He breathed in sharply and turned to face her. His voice was jagged when he spoke.

“Sorry.”

“Do you think it a foolish idea?”

_Is he particularly fond of the garden as it is?_

“We can do that.”

“Are you sure you’d like to?”

Sansa tried to catch Sandor’s gaze. She had not expected his response to the garden to be so strong, and something tugged at her stomach. Coupled with the tight band across her chest, she was unable to shake the feeling of unease.

“Sansa. I want to tell you something.”

There was a tightness to his words, something hurried in the way he spoke. His voice was a low rasp, the words so quiet she might have missed them were they standing any further apart. _‘Look at me,’_ Sansa wanted to cry, _‘you’re making me nervous.’_ But if _she_ was nervous, what was _he_? With every moment that passed, Sandor’s breathing seemed to grow faster, until Sansa could bear it no longer.

“Is it the garden?”

She knew it wasn’t; but she guessed anyway, desperate for something that could snatch Sandor from whatever dark thoughts were holding him captive.

_If not the garden, what could it be? Is it about Ellie? Did Bronn say something? No,_ Sansa reasoned. _Sandor is honest. If there was bad news, he would come out with it quickly. Whatever he is contemplating is difficult for him to say, though clearly necessary, or else he would not have raised it._

“Nothing important,” Sandor finally said. “Probably shouldn’t even bother you with it.”

Each word blended into the next, still spoken in that deep timbre. Sansa did not know what to do; for a fleeting second panic overtook her too, confusion fogging up her mind. She closed her eyes briefly and tried to shake it away. _He wishes to tell me, but he is struggling to do so._

Sansa studied his face. She would have met his eyes if only he would look at her, but his gaze was firmly planted on the ground. They stood so close that she could hear his breathing, inspect every line of his face. She studied his right side, his sharp cheekbone and long hair framing a strong jaw. His left side was a beautiful contrast, all twisted scars. Sansa knew that his skin was harder there, like leather, and she knew how the ridges and cracks of his skin felt under her palm.

His lips too, were uneven, one side tugged towards his scars and more rough looking. Sansa raised her eyes to Sandor's- _oh, those eyes_ \- and wished that he would return her gaze. His eyes seemed almost drunk, his mind clearly regressing elsewhere. Though she knew his appearance well, his present anxiety was disconcertingly unfamiliar.

It was obvious that if Sandor was to talk, he would need more time to gather his thoughts. Sansa decided against waiting in silence, not wanting to further the awkwardness.

"I am here to listen, if you decide you wish to speak," Sansa said. "Shall we tidy up?" 

At that, Sandor's eyes flickered to hers briefly, and he nodded.

Silence fell as they tidied up the kitchen. Sansa couldn't resist taking another muffin as she put the rest in a tub. When Sandor noticed, his lips quirked upwards for an instant, and Sansa sighed in relief. 

"I was in the garden."

His words came out of nowhere, catching them both by surprise. Sansa simply nodded. Silence fell once more, only interrupted minutes later as Sandor slammed a cupboard door shut. 

"Always was fast for my age," he said. "But I couldn’t ever run for long. Longer I ran, angrier he was. Didn’t stop me trying." 

Sansa watched Sandor as he spoke, noting the subtle signs of anxiety in his tight jaw and shaking fingers. He shut his eyes, taking a sharp breath inwards before opening them again. Sansa made sure that he didn't notice her watching him, concerned that he may mistake her compassion for pity. Seeing his pain, she wanted to grab him and never let go, and was forced to bite back her frustration at feeling useless.

"Every fucking time," Sandor muttered. "Stupid. Perhaps he liked it. The thrill of the chase. I don't know. But I knew it was bad when he caught me that time." 

His voice was thick with loathing, though for himself or for Gregor Sansa didn’t know.

Sandor’s voice dropped softer, rendering the individual words barely audible. He seemed only half aware of her presence.

"I don't remember much from before, but I know I wasn't happy. My mother raised me better than my father, though perhaps it's for the best she didn't live to see what Gregor became. I-" 

Sandor shook his head. He walked to where Sansa stood at the sink. She passed him a plate and a tea towel and he began to dry. 

"I remember her singing." A pause. "Not much else. By the time I was five, Ellie was raising me, though she was hardly old enough to do so. Would've been fine, just the two of us."

The now-dry plate was shoved into the drawer. Sansa placed a wet bowl into Sandor's hands. He gripped it tightly. 

"Wasn't just the two of us, though. My father did fuck all. Everyone was afraid- Gregor got in these rages and we did our best to avoid him. Worked for a time." 

Sansa abandoned the washing up sponge and dried her hands quickly before moving towards Sandor. She waited until he tilted his head towards her, not wanting to jolt him out of a memory, before reaching out to take the bowl from his vice-like grip, privately worried that he might break it. 

Sandor took a step away from her, moving back to the kitchen island. His fingertips ghosted the surface as he paced. He managed to move a mug to the sink but then seemed to freeze with it still clutched in his hand.

_I have no way to alleviate his stress,_ Sansa thought, despair seeping into her mind. _How long has it been since he spoke of this? Has he ever?_

"You don't have to tell me."

Sandor did not seem to hear her. He leaned against the kitchen surface, staring at the mug in his hand before finally setting it down.

"I was six, maybe seven. It was evening and I couldn't sleep. My father had met with some posh cunts - to discuss business, I guess. They were in the kitchen drinking. Must have woken Gregor when I crept out of my room. We had these toys. I don’t remember what I had, but it was Gregor’s I wanted. A wooden knight, all painted up, every joint pegged separate and fixed with strings, so you could make him fight. Gregor was five years older than me, it was nothing to him. He had already graduated to torturing animals."

Sansa crept closer to her husband. His knuckles were white where they gripped the surface behind him for support.

"So I took his knight. Was scared all the while, though I thought he was asleep. Doesn't matter- he found me."

Sandor seemed to regress at that, and showed no awareness that Sansa was next to him. Tentatively, Sansa placed her hand on Sandor's arm.

He moved in a flash, grabbing her wrist in his hand and gripping it. Hard. He was breathing heavily, his eyes having shifted from vacant and glassy to utterly furious. 

Sansa's wrist started to ache. She tried to pull away. Sandor tightened his grip. She breathed in slowly and tried to force her heart slower.

"Sandor," she said, in a measured tone. "You're hurting me."

He dropped her arm as if he was burned and sucked in a huge breath before shoving her away. Sansa stumbled backwards. _He's angry._ The thought was little more than instinct and came accompanied by a surge of fear. Sansa failed to hold back a gasp, and she knew that her eyes must be wide. Sandor's were too, the whites showing as he stared at her in horror. 

"Gods," she heard him mutter, followed by a string of curse words. 

Sansa straightened her spine. 

_He is not angry with me,_ she decided. _He would not hurt me, not intentionally. I crept up on him, didn't know how to shake him from his memories. Well, he seems to know me now. He's nervous. He's afraid. He needs me, needs compassion._ Approaching him like she would a wounded animal, Sansa took one step closer to him again, ignoring the frown that tainted his features. He shot her a venomous glare, lip curled upwards in a near snarl. He was shaking. 

"Don't.”

Sansa nodded to show that she understood and stopped her approach. Instead, she held out her arm, outstretched as far as she could.

"I'll hurt you." 

Despite his demeanour, the words were not a threat. Sandor's voice was far from steady, and Sansa could tell that he was only trying to push her away in defence.

"No," Sansa said. "No, you won't. Will you sit with me?" 

Sandor took her hand.

Sansa guided him to the kitchen island and he sat down. Sansa squeezed his hand and stood as close to him as she could. They were almost equal height, Sansa a little taller now that Sandor was seated. She offered him her other hand, palm upturned. He nodded. Sansa placed her hand on her husband's cheek, tracing the scars with her fingertips. She slipped her other hand out of Sandor's and raised it to his face as well, smoothing back his hair. 

Sandor ducked his gaze, his eyes flickering closed. 

“Need a drink,” Sansa heard him mutter. “Fucks sake.”

Despite his words, he appeared more relaxed, and after a few minutes he wrapped his arms around Sansa, separating his knees so that she could stand even closer, between his legs.

“They’d had a party of some sort outside, earlier. I ran out there and he caught me. He hit me and I went down and- I suppose he saw the coals. Gregor never said a word, just picked me up under his arm and shoved the side of my face down in the burning coals and held me there while I screamed and screamed. I screamed loud enough that my father heard from inside. It took three of them to drag him off me.”

He took a deep shuddering breath.

“For months afterwards I didn't move. Took almost a year to get the strength back to walk. I was so tired, but I couldn't sleep because of the dreams..... My father told everyone that it was an accident, that there was a fire….”

The rasping voice trailed off, and Sansa could hear only his ragged breathing. She was deeply sad for him, she realised, so sad that he had suffered so much, so young.

The silence stretched onwards and she bit her tongue hard, hoping to prevent the tears that sprang to her eyes. Her efforts were fruitless. She tried to snivel quietly, but the thought of Sandor as a child, all alone and afraid, sent tears streaming down her face.

“Not alone,” Sandor muttered. Sansa realised she must have spoken aloud. “El took care of me.”

Sansa nodded, and bent her head so that her features rested atop Sandor's hair. She pressed herself tightly against Sandor, close between his legs. His arms tugged her waist to his, his firm chest steadying her. Sansa wound her arms into her husband's hair, slowly stroking her way through. She wasn't sure if the thundering heartbeat she could feel was hers or his. They stood so close they may as well have been one.

After a while, they were interrupted when Stranger nudged Sandor’s legs. Sansa huffed a laugh and drew back, quickly wiping her eyes as Sandor released her, one hand offering Stranger a quick pat of reassurance.

“I'm sorry,” she said.

“Nothing to be sorry for.”

They remained close, Sansa’s hands untangling Sandor’s hair. Stranger returned to Lady’s side and Sandor’s hands returned to Sansa, running up and down the length of her back and drawing her close.

“It was fucking horrible.” His voice cracked slightly, but his chest moved slowly, and he was able to remain calm. “But it doesn't excuse what I became.” Bitterness laced his voice. 

“You went through all of that and still emerged a good man.” Sansa was unable to keep awe from her tone.

“I'm not a good man. Fighting, drinking-”

“You're good to me.”

“No,” Sandor said. He drew back and gently tugged Sansa's hand down, his thumb brushing over her wrist

“I'm so sorry,” he said.

Sansa echoed his previous words:

“Nothing to be sorry for.” She pressed a kiss to the crown of his head. “Sandor, you are so much more than what he did to do. And we don't have to go out to the garden. We don’t have to do anything. No matter what, I'm here. I'm not going anywhere.”

“Could we?” Sandor asked. “If we _did,_ would you- come out to the garden with me?”

_Perhaps if I was there he might not associate the area with the memories._

“Of course.”

Sandor pulled away slightly, his eyes seeking out hers.

“Tell me what you want to do with it?”

“Well, Margaery wants to make it into a rose garden.”

The edge of Sandor’s mouth twitched into an almost-smile.

“We could have flower beds,” Sansa said. “We could cut the grass back, but keep it wild around the edges perhaps. I’d love roses up the side of the wall, or another climber. Clematis by the door.”

_A child’s swing set, a slide, a heart tree to grow slowly over the years we spend together._

“What else?” Sandor prompted.

“Oh, um, a vegetable patch, we can rotate the plants with the seasons. And we could put some in a greenhouse. We could rebuild the kennels and connect them to the house, make them a little more modern so Lady and Stranger can come in and out easily.”

As she spoke, Sandor’s gaze was trained firmly on hers, his hands still brushing up and down her sides. Sansa rested her hands on Sandor’s shoulders. She realised that she had been staring down at him, her voice slowly trailing off.

“How does that sound?” She asked.

“Alright. Maybe.” Sandor grimaced and swore quietly. “Fuck. if you're around it could be alright.”

“I am,” Sansa said. “I'm here.”

Her thumbs kneaded circles onto his back.

“You're here.”


	34. Growth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, all! Hopefully November is going well for you, and I hope any American readers are happy with the election results. Here we have a little gardening chapter from Sandor's POV. I'm not fully happy with it tbh, but fingers crossed you like it. The next is from Sansa's POV. I'd love to hear what you think :)

## Chapter Thirty-Three: Growth

###  **Sandor**

Sandor stifled a yawn as he pushed the shopping trolley around the garden centre, hoping that Sansa wouldn’t notice. _No such luck._

“That’s the third time you’ve yawned, and it’s not yet ten,” Sansa said. “Are you overworking yourself? What time did you get up today?”

Her near-constant worrying would have irritated Sandor if not for the obvious compassion colouring her tone. He had quit his job at last, and if it wasn’t for Sansa’s harassment he would likely get no sleep at all. Sandor knew that he was no stranger to overdoing it, but what _was_ new was having someone who cared so much. With Sansa living with him, there was no way to pretend he was doing less work than he was, so he was forced to get a “proper night of rest” each night, as Sansa put it.

“Don’t know what I’d do without you, little bird.”

He hadn’t meant to say the words; they were meant to be locked up in his mind.

“Shit,” Sandor muttered.

Sansa looked delighted. She nudged his arm with her own, and smiled up at him.

“Your sweetness isn’t going to distract me from how hard you’ve been working,” Sansa said, though the scolding note had left her voice. Her cheeks were coloured with the hints of a blush.

“What do we need from here, then?” Sandor asked, wanting to distract from his unplanned admission.

“Oh, I made a list.”

Sandor ambled around the garden centre with Sansa, their shopping trolley rapidly filling as Sansa added a watering can, several pots, and an abundance of seeds.

“We mustn’t forget bulbs, and compost,” she said. “Oh, and patio chairs.”

“What in the seven hells would we need those for?”

“For sitting on the patio,” Sansa said, like it was obvious. “We might like to sit out there in summer.”

 _She really is making this a long term plan._ The implications still sent a prickle running down Sandor’s back. 

“We can get them in summer then.”

“Oh, alright.” Sansa cast a sheepish smile at their shopping trolley. “I was also thinking that we might buy a few smaller hanging plants for indoors.”

It wasn’t until Sansa led him to what she meant that Sandor realised what a terrible idea it was. Several pots, each with a chain leading to hooks, which presumably would have to be attached to the ceiling.

“Can’t we just get succulents or something?” he suggested.

“Excellent idea.” Sansa added _both_ succulents and hanging plants to the trolley. _Not quite what I meant._ “We can put the succulents on the windowsill and hang these from the ceiling.”

“Perfect for me to hit my head.”

Sansa’s lips twitched into a smile.

“We’ll have to hang them up high then.”

 _Well, the place does need_ _something_ _._ Sandor wasn’t sure that that something was hanging plants, but Sansa seemed entirely enamoured with the idea, so he shrugged and they continued. Sandor lifted several bags of compost and pretended not to notice how Sansa’s gaze trailed across his arms.

“That’s all?”

Sansa surveyed the trolley- or perhaps him, it was hard to tell- before nodding. “I believe so.”

They stopped briefly on the way home to buy paint, trying their best to fit everything in the car without crushing any of the plants.

When they reached home, Sandor attached the hanging plants as directed by Sansa, around the bay windows and french doors, and he had to admit that it _did_ make the place look more alive, though he still thought Sansa did a perfectly good job of that by herself.

“What time is Ellie coming?”

 _Ah._ Sandor thought. _That._ His relationship with Ellie was still a little tense, but now, after several weeks, she had agreed to come and visit the estate, though she was adamant that she wouldn’t come inside. _Can’t fucking blame her, really._ It was bad enough for Sandor to cope with the garden even when Sansa was around- he would never force Ellie inside, not until they had at least re-done it significantly.

 _It might not be too bloody long until we have it all done._ Sandor wasn’t the type for optimism, but seven hells, Sansa’s hope was infectious. He had taken her around the estate after they had gotten a building survey done, and together they had chosen two rooms to start with: what was once the parlour, and the library, which they were keeping much the same. There was also a smaller room that Sansa was unaware of, and Sandor had decided to use that one for storage. Sansa had mentioned all the fabric she had lying around, so Sandor was hoping that the spare room would be helpful once he had tidied it up somewhat; at the very least, there wouldn’t be mountains of fabric on the coffee table.

“Sandor?”

“What? Right, uh, El said she’d be here in a couple of hours, but not to worry about making a big lunch or anything.”

Sansa nodded.

“I thought I’d just make a few sandwiches,” she said.

“She said not to worry about it.”

“I can’t let her visit us and offer her nothing to eat. I’ve only spoken to her a little over text since-” Sansa broke off, chewing on her lip.

 _Since she found out about the marriage._ It was glaringly obvious how stressed Sansa was about seeing his sister again- Sandor could see it not only in the worrying of her lip but in the way she frowned, flittering around their home to check that all was in place despite the fact that Ellie would only be outside. _She won’t mind if Sansa makes something to eat, I suppose._

“I’m sure she’d appreciate food,” Sandor said. “Suppose we need to eat too, don’t we?”

His encouragement seemed to set Sansa at ease, and when she was ready they ventured into the garden. Sandor still felt ridiculous waiting for her before daring to step outside. _What kind of bloody fool can’t handle a bit of grass?_ But she had not deserted him for the past week, so he let Sansa lace her fingers between his and lead him outdoors.

The week before, he hadn’t meant to tell her his trauma, not at first. The conversion was going to be simple- he was going to tell her “I think we should do up the estate”, but then she had suggested the garden. Something made Sandor pause, something that transcended an obligation to tell her. He had _wanted_ to tell her, but breaking down was certainly not part of the plan. Neither was grabbing her wrist hard enough to cause redness that took days to fade. After coming to his senses, Sandor had barely touched Sansa the day afterwards. It wasn’t until the evening that he realised Sansa had noticed, when she cornered him in the kitchen and demanded to know what she had done to upset him.

“Nothing,” Sandor had said. “Don’t want to hurt you is all.”

Her despair had transformed first into confusion and then, to Sandor’s surprise, into frustration.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Her voice was soft but absolute. “Please, Sandor, _this-_ this avoidance- hurts me more than that did.”

So Sandor had swallowed his self-loathing, taken Sansa’s hand in his, and stepped outside. Seven hells, it was slow fucking progress. They had opened the french doors and stood on the crumbling steps that led to the patio, the both of them immobile, and Sandor’s head had quickly filled up. His hands went clammy with fear, but when he tried to slide his hand out of Sansa’s she had squeezed his fingers firmly instead.

“Is it alright if I call the dogs outside?” She asked.

“If you want,” he managed to choke out.

At Sansa’s whistle, Stranger and Lady had emerged. Stranger stayed firmly by Sandor’s side, but Lady ventured onto the grass, offering Sandor something to focus on that wasn’t the past. He struggled to find the words to thank Sansa, but the way she leaned into his side, effortlessly slipping herself under his arm told him that she understood. From there, Sandor had consulted the Elder Brother, who had advised that they continue to take things slow and form new associations with the area that didn’t link to Sandor’s trauma.

It was entirely peculiar to not be on edge, to not be waiting for Sansa to run. Sandor found that he relished the feeling.

Now, after spending every evening gradually progressing, he was able to go onto the grass without Sansa. As long as she was on the patio, her glance from a distance was enough of a reassurance.

“I still feel like a buggering nuisance,” Sandor said.

“You’re not,” Sansa insisted. “I’m going to bring my sewing out. Besides-” she hesitated “-I don’t mind watching you.”

It was at moments like that, when her gaze brushed over him, that Sandor was certain that she liked him. Yet he still hesitated, wary to make the first move. _She might not have run from my past, but gods, if there’s even a tiny fucking chance that I’m wrong I can’t risk it._ She meant too much to him, so Sandor decided to wait for Sansa to make the first move, which would be fine, so long as she didn’t have the same idea. The strange point they had reached indicated that she too, was waiting for something. But Sandor knew that their stalemate couldn’t last forever. Sooner or later, everything would change, for better or worse. He could only hope for the former.

Sansa’s laugh infiltrated Sandor’s thoughts and he turned off the lawnmower, glancing over at her. She was crouched at the edge of the grass with three dogs surrounding her, trying to shower them all with an equal amount of love. Sandor smiled at them before he realised what _three_ dogs meant: Ellie was here. She appeared a moment later, having wheeled around the side of the building, raising her hand to Sandor in greeting.

“The garden’s looking good,” she said as he approached. Sansa ducked inside.

“It’s coming together,” he said. “We’re nearly done with the grass at least. How’s everyone?”

They talked easily for a few minutes, Sandor effortlessly skirting around the topic of Sansa until Ellie asked about her directly. _Ah, shit._

“How are you both?” Her meaning was obvious.

“The same,” Sandor said. It would be too difficult to explain every minute change in their interactions. “Good. We bought plants.”

“Hi,” Sansa said, coming out to join them. Her arms were laden with plates of food which she thrust at Sandor before disappearing back inside. “One more!”

“You didn’t need to make all this,” Ellie said, when Sansa came out with a tray of small cakes.

“Why’re they so little?” Sandor asked.

“They’re redcurrant friands,” Sansa explained. “They’re meant to be this size, I swear it.”

Everything Sansa had made was ridiculously beautiful, and bloody artistic, from those cakes- friands- to the little sandwiches. They sat together on the patio steps to eat, and Sandor had to bite his tongue to stop himself smiling; Sansa was clearly eager to build a strong relationship with his sister, and the assortment of little foods she had made as a loophole- it wasn’t a “big lunch”, if everything was small, right?- was endearing. It was as if by making everything miniature- even the scones were small- Sansa was attempting to distract from all of the effort she had clearly put into it.

“I’m glad Sandor has someone to make sure he eats actual, homemade food,” Ellie said.

“Um, yes, absolutely.” Sansa fumbled through her answer, and Sandor smirked at her, knowing as well as she did that they had a pizza waiting in the freezer for dinner.

Later, Ellie asked Sansa how her project was going, and she responded in a similar way, stumbling over her answer. This time, Sandor was unsure why.

“Oh,” Sansa said, shooting a glance at him. “Um, it’s going very well so far, thank you.” Unable to ignore Sandor’s obvious confusion, she turned to him and said, “It’s nothing important.” With that she promptly changed the subject, leaving Sandor in the dark. _Then again, it’s not as if she’s the only one with a secret project._

It wasn’t until the dogs had turned to shadows that Sandor realised that the sun was setting.

“Oh, and we still have so much to plant!”

“I’ll leave you to your garden then,” Ellie said.

“You’re welcome back here anytime,” Sansa said.

Ellie assured them that she would try to find time to visit again before leaving.

“I think that went quite well?”

“Think so,” Sandor agreed. “We’ll get there. Good to have her here.”

“Yes,” Sansa said. “That did feel rather significant.”

They planted the bulbs together, Sansa carefully placing each bulb into the well that Sandor created.

“Tulips, hyacinth, Christmas roses,” she listed. “I think we’re finished for now.”

“Not the- uh, those bright ones?”

“Geraniums? No, I think we’ll wait for next month. Are you ready to eat?”

“Always.”

“I’ll preheat the oven.”

Sandor followed Sansa to the doors but hesitated when she went inside. He turned away, his back facing the yellow warmth indoors, and took a moment to survey the garden. Alone, he watched the sun dipping below the line of trees, blanketing the entire garden in shade. The extent of Sandor’s gardening experience was limited to Brienne’s chatter about the vegetables she grew, and he was skeptical about the bulbs. It seemed unlikely that they would survive in this weather, when even now it was cold enough that his chest stung with each breath.

“Sandor?”

Sansa’s voice was effortlessly soft and crept up behind him, an extension of the warmth of the house.

“I’m fine,” he said, before she could ask. He was only slightly surprised to find that it was barely an exaggeration. He would not want to stand there for too long, not alone, but nevertheless he _could_ stand there without panic overtaking every sense. Sandor bit back the habitual skepticism that threatened to raise its head, that argued that his progress was insignificant and that his fear would soon rush back. He closed his eyes briefly, focusing on the warmth of Sansa’s arm as it brushed his. Sandor snuck his arm around her, and Sansa mirrored his movements. His heart beat faster, this time not from fear.

“With the grass less wild, it’s easier to see how it may look when we’re finished,” Sansa said.

Sandor looked out at the garden. It looked entirely mundane to him, all flat darkness and a few shadows he knew were the pots.

“I don’t see it, '' Sandor admitted. “Not yet.” His observation was more grounded than Sansa's idealism; when she raised her hand to gesture at different areas of the garden, she spoke as if it was all already visible.

“The ones we’ve planted will be coming up in spring,” Sansa said. “And once we make it through winter we can start planting more. It’ll be beautiful. Oh, and Sandor?”

“Hm?”

“What’s that little plant in the kitchen?”

Sandor tried to remember, and couldn’t help but snort when he did.

“It’s nothing. Saw it in the garden centre- it’s a kit to grow some little fucking tree.”

“Yes, it said it’ll grow a bonsai.”

“Thought you might like it. Grows slowly over years, can get pretty big if you take care of it apparently.”

“I will,” Sansa promised. “Thank you; I love it.”

 _What I wouldn't give to have her say those words about me. _The beep of the oven pulled them back into the kitchen, and saved Sandor from having to come up with a barely coherent response. He smacked his head on one of those cursed hanging plants as they entered.

“I told you that would fucking happen.” His grumbling was overshadowed by Sansa's laughter. As they meandered into the living room to eat, neither of them feeling like sitting at the table, Sandor remembered what Arya had messaged him about earlier.

“What’re we doing week after next then?”

The reproachful look Sansa shot him told Sandor that she had had no intention of telling him.

“Arya told you?”

“She did.”

“We don’t have to celebrate,” Sansa said. “It’s only my twentieth. Nothing too exciting.”

“Do you want to?”

She hesitated. Sandor waited.

“I would quite like to,” Sansa admitted. “We could spend the day together if you’re free.”

“Should be in the afternoon.”

“I’ll go out with Myranda and the girls in the morning then.”

“Sounds good.”

“It’s settled then.”

 _Not yet,_ Sandor thought. _But almost._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, and thanks for reading this chapter. I have a bit of an odd request- I've been playing around with ideas for smut, and I'd be interested to hear any suggestions if you have them. I have a rough idea of how I want it to go from first kiss --> sex, but it's very much a work in progress. What are we thinking - realistic? POV? Slow? (don't worry, I'm not about to drag you all through another slow burn!) Please do let me know if there's anything in particular you would be interested in (or equally, anything you hate). I can't guarantee anything but smut is a new-ish area for me so I'm up for suggestions :)
> 
> Oh, and it's coming soon. Very soon. Like oh-I-have-to-write-this-now soon.


	35. Reasons to celebrate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone. This chapter has a bit of a summary feeling to it at the start, and then we get onto Sansa’s birthday. I’m sorry for the cliffhanger (you’ll see what I mean), but the next chapter carries straight on from here and is also Sansa’s POV. You may have noticed that this is chapter 35/38, and that is intentional. We are nearing the end, and it's just as well, since we're over 100,000 words now, wow!
> 
> There's two more Sansa POVs after this and then a Sandor epilogue (all with varying levels of smut). Let me know if there’s anything you especially would like to see! (I may do a couple one-shots at some points because I’m reluctant to let this fic go!)
> 
> Also, thank you ever so much for your kindness in response to my dog. It’s been a rough fucking year and this is just the absolute cherry on top. I’m still miserable, but to an extent that I can stop it seeping into my writing. Your support and patience means the world. Thank you also for your smut suggestions- wow, what an awesome response! I have taken it all into consideration and it’s kind of drawing together now, so that’s great :)
> 
> Oh, one more thing- the ending of this fic is coinciding horribly with a deadline I have coming up on the 30th November. We should be alright with uploads, but if it gets too much I’ll just extend a couple days into December; I really don’t want to compromise quality here, especially because it’s the ending chapters.
> 
> Anyway, sorry for this long AN. I hope you enjoy this chapter (very anxious for your response!); it’s long to make up for my absence :)

## Chapter Thirty-Four: Reasons to celebrate

###  **Sansa**

_It is strange,_ Sansa thought, _strange to be missing Sandor when I know that he is not so far away, only around a different part of the estate._ But neither of them had the time to see each other often; once they adapted to their new routines Sansa was certain she would see more of Sandor, but for now, life was hectic. She had taken on more sewing projects than ever, to the extent that she wondered if it might be considered a side job. Sandor was almost always disappearing into the estate with his team. When she had the time, Sansa would join him, watching as the dust cleared and new lights replaced the faded yellow bulbs.

They were making real progress, having finished with the parlour. There hadn’t been much to do in the first place, but the transformation still delighted Sansa. They had refitted the old chandelier that had originally hung in the centre of the room. Sandor had complained that it was at once old-fashioned and tacky, but he let them keep it nonetheless. The line was drawn at the wallpaper, however, and even Sansa had to agree that the faded roses were outdated. They re-designed much of the room themselves, from restoring a few of the old chaise lounges to adding more modern sofas that blended Sandor's ideas of a “proper sofa” with the nostalgic feel of the room.

The next rooms would be more work, but even having one completed made the place feel more like it was theirs. Sansa couldn’t help but smile at the fond memory of Sandor’s asking her about the renovations. He spoke of safety nets sometimes, of what they would do just in case things went wrong.

“You won’t feel uncomfortable with all these new people around?”

“I’ll be fine, I’m certain of it. It’s only that I’ll miss you.”

He had fumbled for words after she said that, eventually recovering enough to ask if she thought it was a mistake.

“Not at all,” Sansa insisted. “This is your dream; It makes you happy and we can afford it. Not everyone is so fortunate.”

Sandor had looked at her with something akin to awe after she said that, and Sansa found herself blushing and changing the subject.

When Sansa did see her husband it was for the evening meal, when they would swap stories of what they had done during the day. Sometimes Sandor’s voice would trail off, and Sansa knew not to prompt him with questions; on occasion he retreated into his mind so that he might work out some problem. Other days he took more enjoyment from what he had been up to. At first, he admitted he wasn’t sure what they would actually do with all the rooms. _We could make one of the rooms into a nursery,_ Sansa thought, feeling the heat of a blush creeping up her neck. _We could have children, enough to fill all the rooms in this place. Well, perhaps not_ _all_ _of the rooms, but-_ Shaking her head did nothing to rid herself of the thoughts, so Sansa asked,

“What did you get up to today?”

The question became something of a routine. By far her favourite moments were the ones where Sandor appeared to forget he was even speaking, where his voice drew nearly sombre as he focused. He would lean slightly forwards, raising his hands briefly, deeming a mere gesture enough to show Sansa his vision. His eyes would grow sharp and focused as he mapped out his plans, and Sansa would feel her stomach grow tight with attraction. The sharpness of his gaze reminded her of the morning when she had found Sandor bent over a blueprint of the estate at six in the morning. She had slept terribly, and surmised that it was because he had never come to bed that night, instead spending the time scrawling down illegible ideas. Sansa had forced him to eat, and she couldn’t help but wonder that if it wasn’t her day off, he might not have bothered to move from his place at all.

It was now, as they neared the three months of marriage, that Sansa realised how utterly content she was. She realised it when she arrived home each evening, and when Sandor snuck into bed after a late evening of work, carefully pulling her into his arms as she pretended to be asleep. She realised it when they found moments to eat together, and when she glanced at the clock during her shifts at the coffee shop, yearning for the days when Sandor had enough time to pick her up. _How ironic that I might come to realise how much our life means to me_ _now_ _, when we are so busy we barely see each other._ Still, there were certain benefits to the changes. Brienne was often at the estate now, and they had become fast friends. Sansa found that she could be her more girlish self with Brienne, not only because she understood her situation with Sandor, but also because they had much in common. It was a nice change from the slightly guarded edge that Sansa maintained when with Myranda.

Today, however, Sansa would be spending the day- or the morning at least- with Myranda. She was a little anxious, since she had been told to “wear something slutty” and not to ask the taxi driver where the destination was. Sansa’s request for “nothing too crazy” had been met with a rolling of eyes and reluctant acquiescence.

“Since it’s your birthday,” Myranda had said, heaving a sigh. “I suppose you can have a little choice.”

“Thank you?” Sansa wasn’t sure what to make of that, but now the day had arrived. Her twentieth birthday.

“Good morning,” Sansa said. She opened her eyes to find Sandor’s. The middle of November was drawing clouds across the sun, painting the sky in an overcast grey to match her husband’s eyes.

“Morning,” he replied. “And happy birthday.”

“Thank you.”

When Sansa walked into the kitchen, she found that Sandor had set out plates for the both of them.

“What are we having?”

“I bought cake,” he said, turning around quickly and missing her surprise. “Red velvet,” he announced, setting it on the table. “I didn’t make it. Thought it would turn out terrible if I did.”

Sansa grinned at him, joy bubbling up further as met her smile with his own lopsided one.

“Come and sit down.” Sansa said.

They ate breakfast- if cake could be considered breakfast- before Sandor sheepishly announced that he had to go.

“You’ll be able to spend the afternoon together, though?”

“Absolutely.”

The taxi Myranda had sent arrived soon after, and Sansa felt her stomach twist into knots as it arrived outside what looked distinctly like a bar. _Drinking in the morning?_ Sansa thought, _This does not seem like the most sensible idea._ Still, there was nothing to be done except thank the taxi driver and exit. Myranda was outside, ready to welcome her.

“Gods,” she said. “What are you wearing?”

Sansa frowned. She had chosen a new forest green dress cut above the knee, and paired it with a white statement belt and ankle boots.

“Do I not look nice?”

“You look lovely, but I was hoping you’d look _ravishing._ Don’t worry, you can take those tights off in the bathroom.”

“It’s rather cold-”

“Not inside.”

“Alright,” Sansa relented.

“You can take off your cardigan too.”  
“And the dress?” Sansa laced her voice with sarcasm, which only made Myranda laugh.

“See how you feel later.” Her grin was wicked.

****************************************

“Perfect,” Myranda declared, once Sansa’s tights were bundled in her purse and her neat plait was undone.

“Different,” Sansa said, squinting in a grimy mirror. The bathroom was abuzz with people despite it being mid-morning. “Remind me why you chose this place?”  
“Because it’s always busy, even at this time” Myranda said. “Now come on.”

Sansa obliged, and she found that it _was_ rather nice to sit at the bar and watch drinks being made. She couldn’t deny that the drinks had hilarious names, and she found herself enamoured by one in particular. _Bubblegum Bliss_ looked brightly artificial in the bar’s low light, and Sansa wondered if it would glow in the dark. She ordered another drink too, one with a fruity-sounding name and was only mildly disappointed to find that it did not taste like fruit juice at all. Myranda’s chatter was enough to capture her attention, with the type of talk that Sansa would suppress if it arose in her thoughts, as well as other things that she had not dared to dream of. A part of Sansa almost hoped that she might forget it; a very different part altogether knew that she absolutely would not.

“Here,” Myranda said, holding out a small box. “I think you’re tipsy enough to accept these with the correct response.”

Sansa took the box and squinted. _Eat some dick. Chocolate penises._

_“Myranda!_ What in the- Myranda-”

“I knew you’d like them.”

“I absolutely do n-”

Myranda’s laughter drowned out the rest of her sentence. Then she took Sansa’s hand, carefully helping her down from the bar stool.

“I told him I wouldn’t get you _too_ drunk,” Myranda said. “Now come on then, we’d better get back.”

_“Getting back”_ did not sit well with Sansa, who promptly tried to claw her way back inside when Myranda forced her outside to face the bright light of day.

“Good,” Myranda said. “The light should help.”

Normally Sansa might have faced such a lack of logic with incredulity, but for some reason, she could only giggle.

When they eventually arrived home, Sandor shot Myranda a dark glare.

“Didn’t you leave wearing tights?”

“They’re gone now,” Sansa said, “But here.” She shoved the box into Sandor’s hands. “These are for you.”

Sandor stared at the box, snorted, and chucked them into a cupboard.

“Not quite. Let’s get you a little more sober.”

“You should’ve seen her before,” Myrdanda said.

“You’re still here?”

“I think I’ll stay.”

Sandor’s muttered curses did nothing to deter Myranda.

“Get her some water then,” he said, leading Sansa into the living room.

“I don’t feel too tipsy,” Sansa said.

“Are you going to let go of my arm?”

Sansa hesitated.

“No,” she said. “I don’t think so, if that’s alright?”

“That’s alright,” Sandor echoed, his lips quirking into a smile. “Come on, drink this.”

Several glasses of water, some mouthwash, and a paracetamol later, Sansa‘s head was significantly clearer. _If it wasn’t for the cake at breakfast, no doubt I would be in much worse shape._ Sansa caught Sandor murmur something to Myranda about keeping someone waiting.

“What was that?” She asked.

“Uh- how are you feeling?”

“Well enough to tell that you avoided my question,” she said, with a teasing smile.

“You look better.” Sandor paused. “Got something for you.”

Sandor offered Sansa his hand. She took it, pleased to feel steady when she stood.

“You got me something?” She repeated. “Oh, you didn’t need to.”

“Wanted to. It’s nothing big anyway.”

“Where to?”

“The parlour.”

Sandor hung back when they reached the doors.

“In here?” Sansa said.

He nodded, and she pushed open the door.

There was a moment of stillness when Sansa entered. For a second she could only blink, wondering if she had in fact not sobered up at all. A strange assortment of people stood in an arc around the door, seemingly waiting for her arrival. _Did Sandor gather these people here for_ _me_ _?_

The silence was broken by her mother, who stepped forwards and offered Sansa a wary smile.

“Happy birthday Sansa, darling.”

Still recovering from the surprise, Sansa stepped into her mother’s arms, returning her hug before stepping back and surveying the room. Her eyes danced over the familiar setting, singling out the additions easily. There were tables running parallel to two walls with food, and another small table piled with gifts. The doors had been opened out so that the guests could spill out into the garden. Most peculiar of all, however, was the appearance of all the different people- Sansa couldn’t deny that she was anticipating some kind of chaos with all of her family present as well as Bronn and Margaery, and no doubt her mother would be mildly horrified by Brienne’s height.

Briefly forgetting etiquette, Sansa turned around to face Sandor where he stood behind her, ignoring the guests.

“Sandor?” She said, unable to keep the bewilderment from her tone. “Did you arrange all of this?”

“It’s nothing.” His voice was lower than usual, his eyes betraying his anxiety as they darted around, his gaze alternating between her and the guests. He looked entirely uncomfortable, with his hands shoved into his jean pockets, like he might bolt at any moment. Sansa stepped forwards, raised herself upwards, and threw her arms around his neck.

“Thank you,” she whispered to him.

“Go and enjoy yourself.” His voice was almost a grumble.

Sansa felt almost embarrassed by their little display, but she was around her _friends,_ her _family,_ and Sandor was her _husband,_ so she finally turned to greet them- properly, this time.

As the surprise wore off, Sansa found herself talking to her mother. She smothered a laugh as she watched her take miniscule bites of pizza, clearly struggling to adapt to the informal setting.

“Thank you for making an effort to come here,” Sansa said. She knew it couldn’t have been easy for her mother to agree.

“Of course.” Her voice was a little stiff. “It is your birthday, after all. Did you have a good time earlier?”

A little jolt of panic shot through Sansa.

“Um, earlier?”

“You went out with your friends, didn’t you?”

“Oh,” Sansa said. “Yes. Um, we went for coffee. It was lovely, thank you.”

“Will you be moving into these rooms soon, do you think?”

“Do you know,” Sansa said. “I truly have no idea. We’re enjoying doing the place up, though I’m not certain about long-term plans.”

“Who have you got to design them?”

Sansa laughed.

“Oh,” she said. “No, mother, it’s only us.”

“The decoration in here; this was you?” Her mother did not try to hide her surprise; Sansa wasn’t even sure if her voice was shot through with disapproval. 

“We kept some of the original design.”

There was begrudging respect when her mother next spoke. “I like it. It’s tasteful.”

“Thank you.”

Sansa noticed Jon standing by the wall, and she offered him a smile. Before he could reach her, however, Arya appeared.

“Sansa,” she said, in lieu of a hello. “I told him you’d like it.”

“I do, thank you.”

“So has he shown you what he’s got for you yet?”

“This party is more than enough, I don’t want more,” Sansa said in earnest. Seeing that Sandor was nearby, listening to them, she called out, “Though I would love your company later.”

Arya wrinkled her nose in disgust.

“Urgh, you’re all over each other.”

“We are not-” Sansa protested, hoping in vain that her cheeks weren’t about to turn pink.

Sandor cleared his throat as Arya left, muttering something about “disgusting couples”.

“Hope you didn’t actually mean that, little bird.”

“You got me something else?”

“I can show you now, but we’ll have to leave for a moment.”

_I probably ought not to leave my own party,_ Sansa decided, though reluctance and curiosity threatened to overtake her.

“Could you show me afterwards?”

“Of course.”

With that Sandor left her side and Sansa took the opportunity to speak with Jon.

“It’s lovely of him to do this,” Jon said.

“Isn’t it?” Sansa made no effort to hide her agreement; Jon was the only family member that had complimented Sandor directly, and it increased not only Sansa’s appreciation of her husband but of her brother, too.

“Did you know that-,” Jon said. “Well, that he actually included me- named me- in the invitation?”

It took Sansa a little while to piece together what had happened but when she did, she was able to make sense of the strange conversion that had transpired a few days prior. Seemingly out of nowhere, Sandor had asked how many brothers Sansa had.

“Oh. That’s a bit of a long story.”

“You don’t have to talk about it.”

“Robb.” Sansa said. “Robb, he- he slept with a woman that worked for us- a maid- and she fell pregnant. Rather than- well, rather than the alternatives, he eloped. First, he asked for his share of the family inheritance, claiming that he wanted to start investing. My father was thrilled; it was always hard to keep Robb under control, especially with all of us younger siblings to take care of, so I suppose my father must have believed he was taking an interest in the family business.” Sansa failed to keep bitterness from colouring her tone. “Needless to say, he wasn’t. They ran away with the money.”

“Do you know where they went?”

“Australia, we think. Mother won’t speak of him. He wrote to my father once, I think, to ask for more money. I saw father sitting by the fire, reading a letter and after that our fortunes dipped further. My father felt honour bound to protect Robb- to provide for his eldest son, I suppose, though the Gods know Robb felt no reciprocal duty. We haven't heard from him since.”

A weighted silence fell.

“Three brothers,” Sansa said finally. “Jon, Bran, and Rickon.”

“And one Arya.”

“One Arya.”

_Was he asking so that he was certain to get the invitations correct? How absolutely wonderful._ She was glad she hadn’t told Sandor Jon was her half-brother. No doubt her mother was angered by his inclusion in the invitation, but after Robb’s abrupt departure Jon had stepped up and taken on the role superbly, and Sansa was glad now that he knew she valued their closeness. By instinct, Sansa found herself seeking Sandor out, her eyes finding his large form easily where he spoke to Bronn and Margaery. Sansa lifted her hand in a wave, and Margaery drifted over.

For the next hour, Sansa was in her element, socialising easily. She spoke with Margaery about the garden and the flowers, leading her outside to show where they had planted her rose. She spoke again with both of her parents, and even briefly with Bronn. She made sure to seek out Brienne, the both of them sampling all of the desserts, and then repeated the process with Arya, albeit with more chaotic results, including Arya spitting out the foods she didn’t like into napkins. The only people she _didn’t_ manage to talk with were Ellie and Bran. When she did migrate towards the doors, she paused upon noticing that Bran had wheeled his chair next to Ellie’s on the grass. He was leaning forwards, speaking to her in a manner more animated than Sansa had seen him in a long time. She watched them with fondness instead.

“Enjoying it?”

_Sandor._ The only other person she had barely spoken to. Sansa turned to him.

“This party-” She began. “What you’ve done….”

“Was mainly Arya.”

Sansa snorted.

“I know my sister. She probably supplied the drinks and that’s it.”  
Sandor chuckled. The sound made haziness clog up Sansa’s mind, and after the morning’s adventures she had been sure to avoid the rosé, so if it wasn’t _that_ influencing her _……_

_I want it to be just us,_ Sansa realised. _Only for a little while._ She truly did love this party, and she had missed her siblings, and _oh,_ it was wonderful- _but just for a moment, I want Sandor all to myself._

“Walk with me?” Sansa offered Sandor her hand. He took it, though not without evident surprise.

“So you’ve changed your mind about ditching?”

“Only for a moment,” Sansa insisted.

“Where to?”

“I’m not sure,” she said, a little too shy to say “ _somewhere alone”._

They snuck out quietly and meandered around the estate, ending up in the area where they lived. Sansa traced the kitchen island with her fingers as Sandor leaned back against the counter. Nerves twisted Sansa’s stomach tight enough that she was almost short of breath, but it was not an entirely painful situation- more a physical reminder that she had to _do_ something. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Sandor- in a way, it was because she _did. We simply cannot remain as we are. What we have built is wonderful, but we could be so much_ _more_ _._ It was that tempting possibility, that thought of completion- and perhaps also the activities Myranda had hinted at- that propelled Sansa towards her husband. She moved so quickly that she wasn’t sure what she was doing until she stood right in front of him, with Sandor leaning on the counter, his hands out, quite literally holding her at arm’s length.

“You alright?”

“I- um- I want to thank you. For everything. The last two months- almost three months… they’ve been…” Sansa’s voice drifted off, and she was entirely aware that she must have had a dreamy smile planted on her face.

Sandor did not speak for a long time. His arms fell down, down, down, until he was clutching the kitchen counter. Sansa edged closer until their legs brushed, prompting Sandor to lift his gaze.

_“Sansa.”_ His tone was full of warning and made her shiver.

_“Sandor.”_ She tried to mimic his voice, but hers merely came out high and breathy.

“You’re not still drunk?”  
“I am not.”

Sansa raised one hand to cup Sandor’s left cheek, her thumb dancing over his lips for an instant. Her other hand found Sandor’s chest, and it took every ounce of self control to simply let it rest there, wiggling her fingers just a little in an attempt to satisfy her need to feel him. Sandor’s legs widened enough that Sansa was able to stand between them. She licked her lips.

“What is it that you want?” Sandor’s voice was rough as gravel. He was staring at her lips, Sansa realised, the thought sending a tremor to her hands. _He knows exactly what I want._

“Haven’t you figured it out yet?” She asked.

The air was thick with tension. Sansa’s patience snapped.

“I want you.”

Sansa unabashedly let her gaze roam over Sandor, ignoring his vaguely incredulous cry.

_“What?”_

“I want you,” she said again, as her heart smashed against her ribs, her chest moving quickly. When he said nothing despite her desperation for his reaction, Sansa tugged her gaze upwards. Finding Sandor’s eyes as dark as molten silver, Sansa swallowed hard, though not in fear. _Anticipation,_ she realised, emboldened further by her newfound awareness. She slowly raised herself up onto her toes, holding Sandor’s gaze all the while. Then she crushed her lips to his.


	36. Learning (part one)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! The next few chapters are going vaguely less smoothly than I planned. This chapter is huge and took me forever, so I’ve split it into two parts; this is part one, and the more smutty part two will be up tomorrow. Then there’s going to be a bit of a break, five days-ish, until the next chapter.
> 
> Also, today marks exactly three months since I started writing this, wow. It feels odd to be nearing the end, but it’s been great fun. Thank you all for your continued support. :)
> 
> Anyway, I hope you like this chapter. It's Sansa's POV and continues straight onwards from the last. I look forward to hearing what you think. :)

## Chapter Thirty-Five: Learning (part one)

###  **Sansa**

Sansa kept her eyes open just long enough to see the surprise flashing in Sandor's before he started to kiss her back. She melted into it, the sensation nothing short of thrilling. Sandor's lips weren't fully consistent as hers were; they were a little thinner and on one side she could feel the roughness of his scars _. I had forgotten how far his burns extend._ They stopped her lips from gliding smoothly over his, adding friction and searing heat. Sansa found the physical roughness strangely akin to the rasp of his voice.

As a child, Sansa watched the kisses her parents shared- nothing inappropriate, but lasting a little longer than could be considered chaste- and thought of her own husband in the future. Never had she imagined a man like Sandor, all dark hair and gentle strength and ruggedness, but their kiss, _that_ was perfectly in line with her previous daydreams. Her mouth was barely open at all, and she moved tentatively, all her sweetness and emotion caught in the middle of it.

When Sandor broke the kiss, Sansa opened her eyes. Her heart was so very strong, like a bird's wings pounding at the metal bars of a cage. 

“Why?” His voice was ragged.

“You know why.” For a moment Sansa’s confidence lapsed, and she dared to ask, “Is this what you want as well?”

“I just want you to be happy,” he muttered. “Are you sure that’s with me?”

Sansa knew then that she loved him.

“Sandor,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper.

He turned his face away from her and Sansa felt her hands twitch with the urge to touch him.

“You could have anyone,” he said, still looking away. “The way you interacted with everyone today- are you sure you’ll survive with just me?”

Sansa couldn’t help it; a giggle escaped from her. She loved that Sandor’s lips quirked upwards at the sound, even as his brow creased in confusion. Finally he turned back to her, and Sansa melted anew at his eyes, dark grey in the evening light but somehow bright with life and sharp as steel. _Gods, his eyes are beautiful._

“Yes,” Sansa said, her tone wry. “I think I'll be perfectly fine with ‘just you’.”

Sandor looked at her still with confusion, apparently entirely unaware of the effect he was having on Sansa simply by existing, simply by standing there, all low gravelly voice and soft hair and strong hands made gentle when he touched her. Neither of them moved.

“You could choose another.”

Sansa was shaking her head before Sandor had finished speaking. Clearly she needed to put her feelings more explicitly into words, since he wasn’t understanding. She wanted a family, and the family she wished for wasn’t that of her parents and siblings. No, she would always have them, but what Sansa wanted- what she longed for- was a family of her own. And she needed it with the man in front of her, the man leaning against the kitchen counter, his hands gripping it hard enough to send white blooming across his knuckles. Sansa felt her chest constrict with emotion and knew that she needed to say something. _I will simply tell him how I feel, I think._ She raised her hands and placed them on Sandor's broad chest. 

“I don’t want another. I meant what I said. You think you’re not good enough for me, but here I am, desperate for you to see how much I need you. Perhaps it could be only us for a while, and then children one day.”

Speaking her thoughts made them take form, and an army of children sprang to Sansa’s mind, with hair like the sunset and eyes of steel, with her lithe grace and Sandor’s infectious bark of a laugh. They would be tall and strong and gentle and _loved_. Sansa pressed a kiss to Sandor's scarred cheek and murmured into his ear; a thrill shot through her as she spoke. 

"Make me your wife in truth." 

“Fuck," Sandor whispered. "How did I get so lucky? Gods, Sansa, you want me.” This time it wasn’t a question.

"I do."

Sandor's eyes were dark as he stared at her, his gaze leaving her face only to look at her hair. He raised a hand, his fingertips grazing her cheek, sending the hairs on Sansa's neck prickling upwards. A deep sensation, like a string tied tightly in her stomach, dragged her towards him. Something in her expression must have shifted too, because then Sandor leaned near her, and in a flash they were kissing again.

This kiss was nothing like their first. Sansa hadn’t been expecting it, and as their lips touched she caught Sandor's bottom lip between hers. As her teeth brushed against his lip, Sansa didn't think- she bit down slowly, not daring to open her eyes and gauge his reaction. Sandor growled low in his throat and pulled away. The heat of attraction threatened to melt into embarrassment, and Sansa finally opened her eyes. She opened her mouth too- to apologise, perhaps? Or perhaps to protest at the loss of him. Regardless, whatever she was planning to say was lost as Sandor, recovered from the surprise, claimed her mouth again.

Their air was shared now, their breath mingling, and Sansa breathed him in. His hands held her with reverence, a stark contrast to the barely concealed strength evidenced by the muscles she ran her hands over. Sansa's skin ached for more. She leaned against him, the friction of their chests brushing together furthering her attraction. Sandor wrapped one arm around her waist, tugging her closer, holding her upright. _Thank the gods. Without him I would not doubt fall over._ Sandor's other hand was somewhere tangled in her hair, loose enough that she could pull away, tight enough to guide her movements.

As her heart thundered, stamping out any trepidation, Sansa felt something new nudge against her lips. She realised it was Sandor's tongue tracing the seam of her lips, and she tentatively moved to meet him, opening her mouth. When their tongues touched she groaned into his mouth.

Sandor's hand tightened in her hair, his arm firmly around her keeping their bodies flush. 

_There is a time to learn,_ Sansa thought, _and a time to simply experience_. She let her instincts reign, ecstasy at the physical sensation dominating over a background of trust.

Sandor's tongue retreated suddenly into his own mouth and as he started to pull back Sansa chased him. With barely an instant to breathe they were back again, only Sansa was tasting all of him now and it was almost overwhelming. A daze not unlike the euphoria caused by drinks that morning set her on edge. Every sense tingled, from her toes curled in pleasure to her aching chest to the heat curled inside her belly.

When they finally separated, they were both panting and Sansa didn't say anything for a while, content to grin and watch how Sandor's breathing was just as heavy as hers. His eyes crinkled at the edges, and even if he didn't speak that would've been enough to tell Sansa he was happy. But he did speak, his voice a shudder.

"Gods, Sansa. Do you know how long I've wanted to do that?" 

"Did it live up to your expectations?" _It certainly surpassed mine._

"Seven hells," Sandor said. He leaned forward; Sansa went to raise herself, thinking they were to kiss again, only to find herself surprised by a kiss to her jaw, and then another. Sandor trailed kisses down to just above her collarbone and then around to her ear, where he sucked gently on the soft skin of her neck. Sansa hummed, her body thrumming with life, and pushed him gently away so that she could find those lips again with her own. She ignored his protests when she eventually stepped away, relishing in this newfound power.

“We shouldn’t be gone for too long.” She didn’t try to hide her reluctance. 

Sandor reached for her.

“Sandor,” she chided. “We should get back.”

“Right now?”

“Right now.”

“Suppose there’s no time to give you your present then.”

“Oh,” Sansa said. “No, I think there’s just enough time for that.”

Taking her hand, Sandor led her silently down the hallway back towards the parlour.

“Is it in the parlour?”

“No.”

“Is it-”

“Here.”

Sansa looked at where they had stopped- face to face with a closed door, one of the many abandoned rooms in the estate.

“Is it in here?”

“It _is_ here,” Sandor said. “You can go in. It’s the room.”

Sansa pushed open the door. The unmistakable smell of fresh paint invaded her senses. Sandor was still speaking as she stepped inside.

“It’s nothing much.”

Sandor flicked on a light switch and stood waiting by the door. The bright light revealed what Sansa had previously failed to notice: the room was _not_ one of the abandoned rooms. Or rather, it was no longer in need of repairs; it was entirely furnished. In the centre was a large table. Sansa skimmed her fingertips over the smooth wooden surface.

“It’s too tall,” Sandor said. “You can move it down.”

“The legs are adjustable?”

He nodded. Sansa looked over at the walls. One side had an entirely empty cabinet- empty shelves, empty drawers- and the other side of the room housed an ironing board. Sansa offered Sandor a confused glance.

“Sandor, what is this?”

“It’s for your sewing, if you want.”

Understanding hit her suddenly, and Sansa turned away from her husband, back to the room. The table was a cutting table; the ironing board a pressing station; the cabinets for fabric. The light wasn’t bright to blind her, but so that she might see the coloured fabric better.

“Just figured you could do with a room for your sewing- drawers for the fabrics, or whatever, and uh, the table is for, y’know, when you spread all the material out so you don’t have to use the table in the kitchen. I asked Margaery and-”

“Sandor,” Sansa said, cutting him off. “Did you make this?”

“Most of it.”

“Would you come here please?”

He stepped into the room. Sansa turned to him and wrapped her arms around him, holding him close.

“Thank you,” she said, the words muffled by his chest.

“It’s okay then?”

Sansa answered him with a kiss.

When they returned to the party, Arya frowned at them. _I should have known that nothing would escape her observation._

“And here I thought you were the perfect hostess. Now look at you, sneaking off together.”

Sansa blushed at the suggestion.

“We’ve been doing nothing!” She insisted. “Sandor was just showing me my present.”

“Is that meant to be a euphemism? No thank you.”

Arya was gone before Sansa could defend herself.

“She’s ridiculous,” she complained to Sandor.

“She’s not wrong.”

A week later, Sansa smiled at the memory. She still felt awfully embarrassed as she recalled Arya’s accusation, but she was firm in her conviction that she wouldn’t change a thing about that day. Compared to the months they had spent as friends, they were moving awfully fast. Rather than dancing around their attraction, they had shifted to spending the evenings with Sandor mapping out the curves of her body.

 _I wonder if I will still find Ayra’s suggestions and Myranda’s lewd manner of speech so scandalous once we have…. once we’ve actually….._ Sansa’s heart rate increased at the thought. She had dared to picture it several times, and found that it hadn’t changed her. Sansa knew that knowing Sandor entirely would only serve to bring them closer, and she was excited to explore this new dimension to him. So far they had kissed a lot, and she loved that, but his lips never dared to touch her lower than the slope of her shoulders. His hands were more liberal, but still, despite their progress, a part of Sansa still felt that their relationship was moving slowly. She knew what she craved now - talking with Myranda had done more to prepare her than anything her mother ever taught her - and Sansa intended to have it. _If Sandor will have me,_ she thought. 

With that, Sansa realised that she had not actually seen much of him, and she resolved to. Their late night kissing had been only that - kissing, and tentative touching from them both. Sansa often sought out Sandor’s chest in the dark, circling her finds into the hair that she found there. She had not, however, seen him properly. _Well,_ she decided, _we will have to change that._ Her skin prickled with heat though whether it was from anticipation or embarrassment Sansa wasn’t certain. They tended to kiss in the day, and touch in the night. Sandor was more forward then, and it was Sansa who lacked experience. Sandor touched her through her thin nightdresses, the ones she had started wearing again after learning that it was easier to feel his touch through them than her ordinary cotton pajamas. Sandor in turn had started sleeping topless, which of course, Sansa had no objection to. But he had not tried to take off her nightdress, and the more Sansa dwelled on it, the more it frustrated her.

“Gods, is he _all_ you think about?” Myranda’s teasing forced Sansa back into the present. They were locking up the coffee shop at the end of their shift, and Sansa hadn’t moved for long enough that it had caught Myranda’s attention.

“It would seem so.”

“I can't believe you won't give me more details.”

“We've done nothing but kiss,” Sansa insisted. “And we've touched a little.”

“Why? What's stopping you?”

Sansa blinked. 

“Nothing,” she said. “Nothing at all. But Myranda-” She took a breath. “Where do I begin?”

Myranda pointed out that Sansa was the one who initiated their first kiss.

“Can't you continue?”

Sansa mulled over Myranda’s words. _Can I continue and gauge his reaction as I proceed?_ A problem struck her.

“I suppose so.”

“What's the problem?”

 _Shrewd as ever, and straight to the point. Oh, how can I explain this?_ Sansa had been making sure that she was well groomed, though she knew that Sandor might have certain preferences about how she looked down there that did not match up to how she looked. She had no experience, and didn’t know where to begin. Though they were alone Sansa dropped her voice to a whisper as she tried to explain as such to Myranda. 

“Don't be stupid. He'd be a fool not to be pleased with you.” Myranda's voice held an undercurrent of meaning. “ _All_ of you.”

“Thank you. So in that respect, you think-”

“You don’t need to worry about that. Just be bold,” Myranda said. “I reckon you’ll be surprised by how readily he responds.”

 _For once,_ Sansa thought, _I am glad of Myranda's straightforward nature._ She tried to embody some of her friend’s confidence on the drive home, carefully considering what she knew already to be true. Sandor’s touches were always slow and gentle and nothing like Joffrey’s had been so long ago. Sansa leaned into his touch, and he never appeared perturbed when she did. If anything, he seemed to like her advances, and knowing that sent Sansa’s confidence spinning upwards. _Yes, Myranda is right. He does not mind my advances in the slightest. The only problem is that he rarely initiates anything; he’s holding back._

When she reached home, Sansa remembered that Sandor wouldn’t be around until later that evening. She got dressed out of her work clothes, feeling somewhat ridiculous staring into the wardrobe and thinking about how she might seduce Sandor. Eventually giving up, Sansa put on a dressing gown that Brienne had gifted her for her birthday, and a nightdress undress it, though it was only eight in the evening. And then, with all that Myranda had spoken of spinning in her mind, Sansa waited.


	37. Learning (part two)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again everyone. As promised, here’s part two, some kind-of-tame smut to start us off. The next chapter could take a while, but it’s coming :) This is my first time sharing any smut I’ve written, so I’m really fucking nervous, but nevertheless I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Oh and also, thank you for over 750 kudos and all your wonderful feedback, it means so much :)

## Chapter Thirty-Six: Learning (part two)

###  **Sansa**

It was dark by the time Sandor came into their bedroom, and Sansa jumped as he appeared by the bed.

“Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in,” she said.

“Ready for bed?”

“Not yet.” _Not in that way._

“Good.” He stepped closer.

Sansa wrapped her arms around Sandor’s neck, tugging him down to her lips and using him to steady her weak legs simultaneously. They kissed until her lips tingled. _I’ve got to be bold,_ Sansa thought. She sat down on the bed, letting her hands run the length of his chest. She didn’t stop. She slid one hand to Sandor's hips and then, hand trembling, grasped at him. Sandor was silenced as she tried to cup him through his trousers, the only sound Sansa's surprised gasp at her own behaviour. 

“Sansa.”

His voice was low and throaty and his eyes wide with shock. Sansa felt him twitch under her grip. She abruptly dropped her hand and shuffled backwards, until she was sitting up by the headboard.

“I'm sorry,” she said, “If I’ve misjudged-”

“Sansa-”

“Ah,” Sansa said, shaking her head and cutting him off. “I didn't mean-”

 _“Sansa.”_ His voice was firmer now. “Slow down. What are you trying to do?”

Silence. 

“If you can't say it-”

“You,” Sansa said. “I want- I'm trying- to sleep with you.”

Sandor had not been expecting _that,_ if the widening of his eyes was anything to go by. But still he shook his head.

“Don't you want it?” Sansa asked. “I thought that you might.”

“Gods know how I want you, how long I've wanted you,” Sandor said. “You can set the speed, we can do what you want.”

“And if I want everything?” Sansa asked. Her heart pounded against her ribcage and she reached out to grip Sandor's hand tight, locking their fingers together. _Myranda swore she was serious when she told me Sandor would be alright with this._ She fought to view her desire as natural like his was, but doubt crept in at the edges. Pulling him into a kiss was only too tempting, and quashed any shame that threatened to rise.

"Then we'll do everything," Sandor agreed, when they parted. "But not yet."

Sansa was still failing to understand. 

“But if we both want-”

“Of course I _want_ to,” he grumbled. “But I won't spoil this by going too fast. Don't want to cause you pain.”

“It's meant to hurt the first time,” Sansa countered. 

“It's _not_. It would if I took you now, without any foreplay, without taking the time to know you-”

“To know me?”

“To know your body. What relaxes you, what makes you feel good, what makes you scream my name.”

His eyes blazed. Sansa shivered. 

“There's more to this than sex.”

“I know. But I don't _know_. Myranda has been telling me, um, some of it.”

Sandor looked Sansa straight in her eyes. 

“Do you trust me?”

“Absolutely,” she murmured. “Entirely.”

Sandor held out his arms and Sansa shuffled forwards, only to have his hands encircle her waist and pick her up, placing her back again. The gesture freed her from the duvet and splayed her legs a little. Sandor's eyes gleamed with mischief, his mouth quirking at her indignant squeal at being manhandled. He paused with his hands still on her waist.

“Talk to me,” Sandor said. “Tell me what you like, and what you don't.”

“I'm not sure,” Sansa said. 

“Not yet,” he countered. “Now let's find out.”

With that, Sandor sank onto the bed in front of her. Even on his knees, he filled her vision, and Sansa found herself trapped between him and the headboard. He reached for the belt of her dressing gown, and in one fluid motion had tugged it off her. Then she felt Sandor’s fingers play with the strap of her nightdress, sliding down the straps with painstaking slowness until her top half was bared to him. Sansa bit her lip; Sandor caught her mouth in his and when he pulled back she offered him a timid smile. Only with that encouragement did he let his gaze drop to her breasts. Sansa felt her nipples harden. She would have assumed it was from cold, but she didn’t feel cold, not at all. Her body was burning and it was all she could do not to beg Sandor to touch her.

There was a moment of absolute stillness as Sandor’s gaze roamed over her. Then he seemed to remember himself, and he raised a hand to pull the nightdress off entirely. Sansa raised her hips to help him, her skin brushing against Sandor’s for an instant. Sandor returned his hand to her hips afterwards, and he stared at her, his gaze tinted with lust. His eyes trailed a blazing path as they dragged down past her neck, down past her breasts, down past the dip of her waist and coming to rest on the flare of her hips.

And then he began to move his hands.

One hand travelled slowly up her thighs, drawing circles there and squeezing softly, whilst the other played with her waistband, tugging her underwear down. Suddenly Sansa was so very grateful Sandor made her slow down earlier, because she wasn’t fully certain that she was ready. _I’m the one who initiated this._ Still, she couldn’t help but stiffen. _Oh,_ she thought, as Sandor’s eyes snapped to hers. _He’s so attentive._

“No?”

“What are you going to do?” Sansa asked.

“I could touch you, make you feel good.”

Sansa nodded and Sandor’s hands left her hips briefly to snake up her waist instead as he drew her lips close for another kiss. As Sansa raised her hand to cradle his face she realised she had been sitting with her hands limp and useless by her side.

“Can I touch you as well?”

“Of course.”

Sansa reached for Sandor’s top, and he helped her pull it over his head. Sansa settled her hands on his chest and shoulders, enjoying the way his muscles tensed and shifted as he moved. It didn’t escape her notice that he briefly brushed a hand over the tightness of his jeans, but before Sansa could say anything, he spoke.

“I’m fine,” Sandor said.

He sounded so very earnest and though Sansa did not believe him entirely, she was soon distracted by his hand stroking up her thighs, fingers splayed. The other grabbed her by the waist. _One hand moving up, one down, and they will meet in the middle...._ Sansa bit her lip, a bundle of nerves and excitement. She had plenty of time to ask him to stop, and no intentions of doing so. Her skin prickled and heat gathered in her lower stomach, so that by the time one finger pushed apart her thighs she was already wet. Though she had felt like this before when they kissed, and Myranda had assured her it was normal, it still felt strange when Sandor found that wetness there, starting to soak through her underwear. He pushed a hand between her legs and his calmness lapsed.

“Fuck,” Sandor muttered, pressing kisses down her neck. “So wet for me.”

His voice betrayed something akin to wonder, nothing negative at all, so Sansa relaxed as he cupped the entirety of her through the fabric, applying circular pressure. Sansa felt unbearably hot, her core throbbing, the sincerity of Sandor’s tone only serving to further her attraction. She ground against him, and in response Sandor slowly tugged down her underwear.

Sansa entwined her arms around Sandor’s neck to steady herself as he swept his hand over her. Sansa realised that Sandor was using her natural wetness to slide his fingers over her, again and again. He changed his movements, alternating from circular movements to gently brushing the edge of her entrance. Sansa’s hands fell from him and she fisted the sheets, biting her tongue and swallowing back her pleasure. Sandor reached up with his other hand, never stilling the other, and palmed her breast, his thumb brushing over her stiff nipple. 

“No need to hold back, little bird,” he whispered against her lips. “Just us two here.”

His encouragement gave her the confidence to relax into the sensation, lost in pleasure. Sansa was vaguely aware of bucking her hips, of the delightful friction of Sandor’shand against her, and of stifling a moan into his shoulder as he brushed against a particular part of her. Sandor made a low hum in his chest and then his thumb was back there, rubbing over that sensitive spot again as his lithe fingers worked the rest of her. She had no idea how he could move his hands independently of each other, with the perfect balance of tenderness and strength to make her weak for his touch.

“How’s this?” He asked.

 _“More,”_ was all Sansa could think to say.

She could feel a pressure building, her whole body flush with it. Sandor caught her soft whimpers with his lips. Her eyes drifted shut in bliss until she felt him settle his face in the warmth between her breasts. He took one into his mouth, his tongue offering the same tantalising little flicks that his fingers did. He reduced her to nothing but need, Sansa arching her back and mewling in an attempt to communicate.

As he moved his attention to her other breast, his fingers caught that same part of her that sent a soft shudder run through her. She murmured encouragement, moving her hips up to meet him. Sandor nipped at her neck, his fingers returning to that spot again.

Sansa found her peak in a sudden rush like the smash of a plate- she dissolved all at once into scattered fragments, spinning into pleasure.

“Sandor-”

His name melted off her tongue in a moan as Sansa’s head fell back. There was a rush at her core before the tension snapped, a sudden tightening followed by a feeling so overwhelming it threatened to tip her into blindness. Bright flashes of light invaded her vision and she lost the final shred of her composure.

When her pleasure receded Sansa found Sandor had not moved.

“Beautiful,” he said, knocking any shame out of her before it could take root. “I’ll, uh, get you a towel.”

When he returned with the towel he retreated again to the door.

“Where are you going?”

“I need to take care of this.” He gestured to the tightness of his jeans.

“Stay,” Sansa blurted, her courtesies escaping her in the warmth of the bed. “You can take care of it here.” She took a deep breath and tried to compose herself; _I must sound so utterly incoherent_. “I would like to watch you take your pleasure here, if- if you don’t mind.”

Sandor’s frown melted into wide eyes and a raised eyebrow as he caught her meaning.

“You watched me,” she pointed out. “I would like to watch you. And perhaps you might show me how to please you.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know. It is not obligation that motivates me.”

Sandor’s jeans were off very fast after that. He sank back onto the mattress. Sansa licked her lips in anticipation.

“Careful girl, you don’t want to do that.”

Sansa’s mouth opened a little in surprise.

“Nor that,” he said, with a smirk.

Sansa laughed at the danger in his tone, glad that there was no awkwardness as a result of before. _My desires do not put him off in the slightest._ When Sandor pulled off his boxers Sansa felt warmth prickle over her skin again. Too struck by curiosity, she didn’t raise her head to see if Sandor was watching for her response. _Well, Myranda did suggest that it would be in proportion, but gods, it will never fit…._ But that was a worry for another time. Sansa watched as Sandor spat on his hand before wrapping it around himself and starting to move.

Sandor’s expression quickly caught her attention, his eyes open and trailing the length of her body. She realised abruptly that she was still naked. He appeared paradoxically tense and relaxed, his jaw slack with pleasure. _I wonder if this is how he will look when we are joined in truth, almost entirely still, drinking in the sight of me even in the throes of his own pleasure._ There was something so alluring and raw about him in this instant, and before she could think Sansa had leaned forward.

“Can I?”

At Sandor’s nod, Sansa reached for him. She realised almost immediately that she had allowed his expression to distract her; _I failed to pay attention, and now I’m not so certain how to begin._

“You’re not going to break me,” Sandor assured her. He wrapped his hand over hers, tighter than she would have imagined, and guided her strokes. After a moment he pulled her hand away and raised it to his mouth as if to spit onto it.

“Wait,” Sansa said. “Couldn’t you-”

She broke off and ducked her head, licking from his base to his tip, eliciting a groan from the man above her. She drew back to gauge his reaction, pleased at the deep groan from his chest when she licked her lips. When Sansa brought her hand back, Sandor thrust into her hand in a manner that was almost needy. It didn’t take long after that; with his hand guiding hers, she stroked faster until his peak came upon him. Sansa felt Sandor jerk, once, and then her hand was covered with stickiness.

Sandor grabbed the towel and cleaned himself before offering it to Sansa. She noticed as they got ready for bed that he seemed almost hesitant. It took her several minutes before she realised what may be causing his apprehension; _I am not the only one who lacks experience. Perhaps he is unused to having someone remain with him after they have found their pleasure together._ Whilst Sandor used the bathroom, Sansa grabbed a fresh pair of underwear. After a moment's deliberation she climbed into bed in nothing else, drawing the covers over her nearly-naked body. From the way Sandor’s breathing hitched as he reached for her after joining her in bed, it was obvious he had noticed.

“How am I meant to sleep when you’re here like this?” His voice tickled the back of her neck.

Sansa turned to face him.

“How am _I_ meant to sleep when you’re still wearing a t-shirt?” She countered, earning her a low laugh in response. Sandor’s top was quickly tugged off and pushed onto the floor, and Sansa hummed in pleasure, leaning into his embrace. Warm and sated, Sansa fell asleep wrapped in her husband’s arms.


	38. Moving Forward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone. I hope you’re all doing well and had a good Thanksgiving if you celebrate it. It was a very welcome surprise to find that so many of you liked last chapter’s smut. I hope you like this chapter as well. It’s technically the final chapter, since the one after this will be an epilogue, and it’s also the last Sansa POV since the epilogue is Sandor’s.
> 
> Thanks so much for all your support; your comments make writing explicit scenes worth the stress :) Having said that, for someone who apparently doesn’t like writing smut, I sure wrote a lot for this chapter, haha. It's pretty huge (~5000 words), and I think the epilogue will be too, so I’ll post in around five days.
> 
> Also, we reached 25,000 hits, which is so much, woah! Thanks for making it so far! :)

## Chapter Thirty-Seven: Moving forward

###  **Sansa**

“Sorry!” Sansa called, swerving around a corner. Furious honking followed her car. “Did I run _another_ light?”

She couldn’t help the horror she felt, and she blamed Sandor entirely for her terrible driving. Her mind was preoccupied, running over memories on loop. It was always on the drive home, she noticed, when she became particularly agitated, particularly desperate to see him. That, and the mornings. She had basked in Sandor’s warmth at night for weeks, but now the safety of his embrace offered more: kisses down her back as his hands roamed across her front, until she could bear it no longer and turned around to touch him as well. Sometimes Sandor would buck his hips, seemingly by instinct, and Sansa was happy to take him in hand and help him find his pleasure.

Taking things further was a little anxiety-inducing, but as the days passed, Sansa realised that the feeling wasn’t going to go away. The slight trepidation didn’t mean that she didn’t trust Sandor. She certainly _did_ trust him to make her feel good, in the haze of sunrise, all languid kisses and slow, heavy fingers coaxing moans from her. If she had to drive a little faster to make it to work, that was fine. Driving home quickly to see him at home, that was fine too. But this? This- this speeding, running red lights- was _not_ acceptable. Sansa was a good, law-abiding citizen, and clearly something needed to change.

When she reached home, Sansa realised that Sandor hadn’t heard her come in. It was rare that she noticed him before he saw her. I was like a gift had been bestowed upon her, a fleeting moment to watch her husband entirely unaware of her presence. Standing on the threshold to their kitchen, she let her eyes trace over the unfamiliar scene. _Of course,_ Sansa remembered. _He said he may try to paint the kitchen if he has time._ They had settled on pale grey, and judging by the walls already painted, it was a good choice, offsetting the bright white counters. Sandor completed the gradient, with his dark hair and black jeans. Lady was sitting beside the kitchen island, staring up at the pot of paint, clearly trying to determine what it was, whilst Stranger stood next to Sandor, his wagging tail coming dangerously close to the wet wall. Sansa laughed, giving away her location, and Sandor turned to her. She felt that that familiar shyness and attraction all at once as she walked towards him. Balancing on the balls of her feet, Sansa kissed her husband, just a chaste press of her lips to his. She hoped he knew what she meant, but decided to say it as well.

“Hello,” she said, “You look ever so domestic painting with the dogs.”

“I’ve near painted them a dozen times,” he said. “How was work?”

“Not too bad. This looks good.”

“Nearly done. You going to join?”

“Absolutely. I ought to get changed.”

“What’ve you got that’s rough to wear?”

“Nothing that can be ruined, I don’t think. Pajamas, perhaps. I’ll go and look.”

Sandor cleared his throat as she turned away.

“What about that shirt?”

Sansa froze. “What shirt?”

“That one of mine. Uh-”

“From our wedding?”

“Right.”

“That’s not rough.”

“What is it then?”

“It’s special. It was of comfort in the beginning, um, when you weren’t around.”

Sansa didn’t miss Sandor’s grimace.

“I’ve probably got an old t-shirt or something,” he said.

“Do you know why I like that shirt?”

Sandor shrugged. He looked distinctly uncomfortable.

“It’s because it smells like you. But... I suppose I don't need it anymore, because now I have you.”

For several seconds Sandor just stared at her, his expression unreadable as he turned over the words in his head.

“I fucking hate that shirt.”

Sansa heard the true meaning of his words. _He still holds anger, still hates himself and his actions._

“I don’t,” she said. “I like it very much.” She decided not to press her point further. “I’ll go and get changed.”

_Well, I believe I know how to make him like the shirt._ A nervous laugh escaped Sansa as she undressed, slipping off her bra until she stood in only her underwear. The shirt fell to her mid thigh, and though it was far from tight, she knew that Sandor would no doubt notice what little she wore underneath.

“Do you like the shirt now?” Sansa asked, leaning against the doorframe. Sandor stilled as he looked at her, his sweeping gaze enough to send Sansa’s nipples hardening. She walked towards him slowly, earning her a hard, thrilling kiss when she came within reach. 

“No,” Sandor growled when they parted.

“No?” Sansa echoed.

“I would much prefer you _without_ it.” An undone button illustrated his point, and Sandor kissed the exposed skin, between her collarbones.

Sandor lifted a hand to cup Sansa’s face but stopped abruptly, his eyes widening. Sansa glanced at his hand, and saw that he still held the paintbrush.

“Did you paint my hair?”

Sandor’s lips twitched. Sansa shook her head, stepped forwards, and kissed him- the only way to stop him from noticing what she was doing. She used the distraction to reach one hand along the counter until she found the pot of paint. Sansa dipped her fingers into the paint, pulled back, and made a swipe at Sandor. He moved quickly out of the way, but Sansa managed to leave her mark: finger-shaped paint swiped across his neck.

“Mine was an accident,” he protested.

Sansa giggled. “Should we change out of these clothes?”

“Reckon that wall needs a second coat.”

Sansa failed to hide her displeasure, a huff of air escaping her.

“I was rather hoping we might do something else,” she admitted, in answer to Sandor’s frown. She stepped closer to him, sure to take the paintbrush out of his hands, and placed her hands on his chest.

“Sounds like we’re done with painting then.”

“I’ve re-evaluated my priorities, yes,” Sansa said.

Sandor’s hands tugged her towards him by the waist, pulling her up so fast that Sansa had no choice but to wrap her legs around his waist, gripping him tightly as they made their way to the bedroom. Sandor kicked the door shut and dropped Sansa onto the bed. Sansa sat up, keeping Sandor at arm’s length as she undid the shirt. There was something almost ceremonial about it, her hands slowly undoing the buttons until almost everything was bared. Sandor’s gaze swept over her, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. Sansa reached out, her fingers finding him easily to draw his lips in for a brief kiss. Pulling back, she saw how his eyes had darkened and swallowed. Sandor’s fingers ghosted her side, feather light as they traced her ribs, the dip of her waist and the swell of her hips. Sansa raised her hand again, this time to tug at Sandor’s t-shirt.

“I would like to see you as well.”

When Sandor made no move to help her, Sansa's eyes flickered to his and she dropped his top, nervous that she had in some way overstepped. Sandor’s hesitance to show himself to her had perplexed her for a while.

“I'm not as pretty as you, little bird.”

_Is that all this is about?_

“Oh, I doubt that.”

He cast her a look of skepticism but tugged off his t-shirt all the same, leaning backwards as he did so. Sansa raised herself onto her elbows and felt her lips twitch into a grin as she found the dark hair her hands had trailed through countless times before.

“Very pretty,” she said, the note of teasing in her voice slipping into lust.

Sandor flexed his fingers and she realised that they had found their way to her hips again.

“Jeans too, if you would.”

Sandor grumbled but complied, stepping off the bed to rid himself of his jeans. A strip of moonlight through the curtains cut across him, bathing him in cold light. It was enough to make Sansa really pay attention. She reached for him, desperate to trace the path of the silvery scars on his tanned skin.

“Anything else?” His tone was wry.

“Well, um, yes.”

“Go on then.”

The words were a challenge that Sansa rose to with ease. Stepping close to him, she placed her hands on Sandor’s tapered waist and slid down, catching the waistband of his boxers and pulling them off.

Then, retreating once more, Sansa stepped onto the bed.

Sandor stood in front of her, his hands folded across his chest. Sansa noticed how he tilted his head a little so that his dark hair obscured his scars. _No,_ she thought. She reached forwards, barely conscious that she was doing so, and placed a hand on his arms. Slowly, she unwound them, until Sandor’s hands were by his sides. Next she reached for his hair, brushing it back, revealing the mangled side of his face. Then Sansa raised herself onto her toes and placed her thumbs side by side on Sandor’s forehead. She moved both her hands at once, one hand skimming over his unmarred Northern features, the other getting lost in the twists of his scars, the ridges that she had come to adore. She had done this before when Sandor told her of his trauma, but there was a different energy to it now. _Probably because he’s naked, she thought wryly._ By their own accord, her hands continued to skim Sandor’s body, from his muscled arms to the broad expanse of his chest. His tanned skin was littered with scars, some silver scratches, others pink and raw patches of skin that despite the passage of time, never earned the appearance of healing.

“What happened?”

“Some of it was Gregor. Some of it fights.” His words held a forced crispness, like he was doing his best to maintain his composure. “Told you already I wasn’t a good man.”

“I’m sorry.” She couldn’t help it. Mingled with her undeniable attraction was sorrow at all Sandor had endured; seeing him entirely exposed before her was jarring. Sandor said nothing, and Sansa continued her exploration. Her hands slid lower still, and she remembered that she had wanted to see _all_ of him. She felt her core throb as her eyes found what lay between Sandor’s hips.

Sansa had caught glimpses of Sandor before, but never had she observed him like this; she had always always been too preoccupied with wrapping herself into his embrace, or distracted by his hands on her. How this man could have suffered so much, how he could be a canvas of pain and yet shower love and care upon her was a mystery to Sansa. His suffering had not hardened him past the point of no return, and for that she was endlessly grateful. _Yet he was hesitant to have me observe him like this._ No doubt it was intimidating, especially given the height Sansa had gained from standing on the bed, but the way that Sandor shuffled his feet was more than ordinary self-consciousness. _I shall have to show him how much he means to me; all of him._

Sansa abruptly placed her hands on Sandor’s shoulders. Then, she pressed a kiss to the edge of his lips, his jaw, his neck.

“You’re killing me,” Sandor muttered.

“One moment.”

She continued her descent, taking his hands and kissing those too. She noticed he wore his wedding ring and stilled her movements.

“Everyone knows by now,” Sandor pointed out. His voice was husky.

Slowly, Sansa knelt down. She placed one hand around his hip, steadying herself. With her other hand, Sansa crept towards Sandor’s cock. A quick glance at Sandor had her smiling; he was staring down at her. Slowly, Sansa shrugged the shirt off her shoulders. When she finally took Sandor in hand she could _feel_ as the tension melted out of him.

“Took you long enough,” he said.

Sansa moved her hand once, twice _,_ before moving back and taking him into her mouth. He wasn’t fully hard yet, and over the last week she had learnt that she loved to feel him harden in her mouth. _To know that there is so much we can do that does not have the ultimate aim of pregnancy,_ she thought, _it is truly incredible._ Sansa knew that she liked this, from the salty taste of him to the way he became weak when subject to her ministrations; even the string of curses Sandor uttered when he came in her mouth made her happy.

The first time Sansa had taken him like this, Sandor had tried to pull out before he came, but had failed to do so. He apologised- well, he said _“fuck, girl, I shouldn’t have done that, seven hells-”_ , his his eyes widening as Sansa swallowed, wiped what remained from her chin, and offered him a smile. He did not apologise again, only muttered about how “bloody lucky” he was.

Sansa brushed Sandor’s balls with her hand, holding him firmly at the base and she swirled her tongue around the rest of him. Then, without warning, she pulled back, ignoring Sandor’s moan from above her.

“You’re a tease,” he grumbled, watching her with curiosity. The mischief in her eyes must have shown, because he asked. “What’re we doing then?”

Sansa raised herself so that she was standing on the bed, her toes curled over the edge. Leaning forward, she pressed her chest to her husband’s. Sandor’s hands found their way to her waist. She kissed his jaw, and then below his ear, Sandor’s hair tickling her cheek as she turned to whisper,

“I was thinking that perhaps you might like to make love.” The tameness of her words juxtaposed with his cock jutting out and brushing the inside of her thigh.

“Say that again,” Sandor demanded. “Tell me what you want me to do to you.” His grip on her waist was tight, and Sansa brought up her hands to push his away. Sandor relented, and with a wicked grin, Sansa bent her legs a little so that his cock ran the length of her thigh. She paused before reaching her underwear. Sandor raised his hands and pushed her, gently. He held her as she fell backwards, guiding them so that he landed atop her on the bed. Sansa kissed him, laughing against his mouth as they tumbled backwards.

“You didn’t answer me.”

_What do I want him to do to me? Well,_ Sansa thought. _Is it not fairly obvious? I want to be his, entirely, and I want the same from him._

“I want you inside me,” she said, a tightly pulled string, a bundle of nerves and excitement.

“My fingers?”

“No,” she breathed.

“My-”

“No.” Sansa cut him off. His body pressed down on hers, so very hot. “I want- I want your cock inside me.”

She was rewarded with a kiss that quickly turned bruising, passion flaming on both sides. It was a long time before Sandor moved, and Sansa could feel him hard against her thigh; for a fleeting moment she thought it might be fast, that now that she had consented, he might push into her now. She was anxious, certainly, but also flushed with want. Their exploration over the last few weeks had unlocked a deep keenness within her. It was as if, with their kiss two weeks ago, an entirely new world was unlocked, the each of them with quirks that neither could have guessed; Sandor loved kissing, Sansa had learnt, and she was certain he had noticed how much she enjoyed the press of their chests together.

Sandor pulled back from their kiss, and offered Sansa a smile that seemed so pure, so genuinely loving, with the just the right touch of hunger that she instantly recognised the rush of arousal that no doubt soaked her underwear.

Sansa lifted her hips to help Sandor pull down her underwear, and then they were both bared to each other. She trembled under the warmth of his hands as they traced the curve of her breasts. Everything was wide and sweeping: his gaze, his hands, his tongue, all working together to bring her pleasure. Sandor moved with a slowness that they had practiced, allowing Sansa to press kisses to his body too, and to run her hands over his body. She gave up, however, when his tongue found her breasts, sinking her hands into his hair and whispering encouragement to him. When he paused and met her gaze he grinned at her.

“You like it?” His voice was teasing.

It took several long seconds for Sansa to realise why he had said that- she had been murmuring “I-like-it I-like-it I-like-it” over and over. Sandor pressed a kiss to her lips before embarrassment could take over.

“So do I,” he said, before returning his mouth to her breasts.

“Gods,” Sansa whispered. She bucked her hips where she felt Sandor’s hardness against her leg, remembering what she had proposed. Sandor dragged himself from her chest, instead guiding his cock to her entrance. With surprising restraint, he rubbed his length over her, never deigning to enter. The friction had Sansa gasping as he slid over her. She had not anticipated this, but nevertheless she acted on instinct, squirming as best as she good to press against him. Sandor grunted, rubbing hard against her, adjusting more of his weight onto her. When she could take it no longer, Sansa spoke.

“I want you.” Her voice shook.

_Relax,_ she thought. She shoved away Myranda’s insistence that she need to be bold, and her mother’s cautions about pain, and focused solely on Sandor, offering him a tremulous smile and a nod. Though she was grateful they had taken things slow, her experience now meant that she knew how large Sandor was, so it was hard to swallow her apprehension entirely.

With a low moan, Sandor pushed inside her.

Sansa felt her body open to the intrusion, her slick wetness allowing him to slide in easily. She did not dare breathe. Sandor stopped moving, and knowing what she had seen of him, it was entirely obvious that he was buried in her only shallowly. Sansa felt her body stretch to accommodate even the small part of him that was inside her.

“Relax,” Sandor murmured. It was only then that Sansa noticed how tightly she was gripping him. “I’ve got you.Too much?”

“Not too much.” She loosened her grip, tugged him closer and kissed him. Sandor weakened, his lips melting into hers, and Sansa sighed, relaxing into his arms. Sansa felt her inner walls clench, her body understanding what to do when she did not. Her walls pulled him in, and it appeared to snap Sandor’s thread of control. He thrust into Sansa for the briefest of seconds, knocking the air from her lungs. Sansa winced at the sting, muffling a whimper into his shoulder.

“Fuck.”

Sansa closed her eyes, trying to grow accustomed to the way she was stretched. It didn’t hurt, not exactly, but it was strange.

"Little bird?" It was the nerves in Sandor’s voice that forced her eyes open.

She opened them to see Sandor’s eyes, wide and wild, and beneath that, pleading. He had stilled his movements. Sansa trailed her gaze over him; his jaw was clenched, his shoulders trembling. 

“Sansa, did I hurt you?”

Sansa shook her head. Thinking about it, there _had_ been the briefest sting, but now there was only a deep fullness.

“You didn’t hurt me,” she assured him. “You never could. You never will.”

“Never,” he agreed, ducking his head and kissing her. His lips were soft against hers as he started to move. 

Slowly, Sandor pushed deeper into her, his eyes trained on hers. When he was buried to the hilt Sansa wiggled her hips to adjust to the sensation. From Sandor’s stifled moan she realised that perhaps that had been the worst thing to do. The first thrust was not unpleasant, nor was it particularly enjoyable. For a while, Sansa remained still, adjusting to Sandor’s movements. But after a short while she began to appreciate the pattern, the ebb and flow, and it wasn’t long before she was whimpering each time he surged into her. Discomfort faded into a pleasant fullness. She tried to move her hips in encouragement.

Pushing aside the old ways she had been taught was not difficult- the last few weeks had prepared her for Sandor’s gentleness as a lover. Yet Sansa still cursed herself and her lack of experience, struggling to match her pace with Sandor’s.

“Don’t worry about it,” Sandor said. “You’re overthinking.”

He was right, Sansa realised. She found Sandor’s neck with her lips and inhaled deeply. She absorbed his emotions; they fed off of each other’s need. He smelled like the outside, pine and sawdust and a masculine scent that she recognised as his own.

The sense of closeness made Sansa suddenly emotional. It was all worth it: the uncertainty, the tension, the build-up, all for this glorious moment. The lack of restraint as they moved, face to face, opened her to another part of Sandor. She knew who he was, she felt it, in a way that she knew would defy any attempts at articulation. Sansa slid her fingers down Sandor’s arm. When she found his hand, she linked their fingers together and began to move her hips. As Sandor had predicted, not thinking about it helped instinct take over until she was aiding Sandor as he thrust into her.

“Bloody hells,” Sandor swore, echoing her movements.

Though Sansa was certainly enjoying the feeling, Sandor’s rhythm was almost languid, and she had a feeling he was holding back for her sake. Unsure what else to do, she arched up, allowing Sandor to briefly find a new angle that caused him to press even deeper into her. He hissed in surprise.

“You can- go faster,” Sansa explained.

One hand firmly gripping her hips, Sandor thrust into her with increasing strength, until Sansa was unable to stop herself mewling in pleasure. His eyes watched her all the while. Bright eyes, drunk with attraction. _I will never stop wanting to look at him._ Sansa felt a deep, buried sensation building up; like a wave, its distance was hard to gauge. She didn’t try to hide how it felt when Sandor’s hand found that same tender area he had found before above her entrance, moaning and arching her back and begging for his touch, eyes closing. She was burning, desperate with need. She was a hot spring trying to force its way to the surface.

“Fuck- yes-” Sansa said. “Keep doing that- yes-”

She broke off and opened her eyes, noticing that there was still a streak of grey paint on Sandor’s shoulder, evidence of her guilt in the grey shapes of her fingers. Sansa’s observations were cut short when Sandor ducked his chin, his mouth finding her breasts. He thrust into her as his deft fingers worked. Sansa wrapped him in her arms and cried out. The ball of heat that had been knotted in her stomach for so long finally came undone, and Sansa closed her eyes as bliss sent blinding white to her vision.

Basking in the last of her pleasure, Sansa realised she was shaking, the blurred world slowly coming back into focus. Sansa watched her husband find his own release- Sandor thrust faster into her, tugging her close. He met her gaze and Sansa knew that she would treasure that vulnerability, the grey of his eyes barely visible compared to his pupils, like rings of ash around a planet. Sansa wrapped her hands around him and traced his back, her fingers feather-light.

“Mine,” she whispered.

Trembling, Sandor cried out his pleasure, an almost broken, keening sound, and Sansa felt warmth surge deep into her. He dropped his head to her shoulder and moaned into it, going entirely rigid before seemingly collapsing. 

Sandor was breathing hard as he rolled off her. Sansa realised that she too was exhausted. She was surprised that she did not feel as significantly changed as she had expected to. _Nothing is altered too much, only further improved._ Sansa turned to face Sandor, her gaze drawn to his chest and how it heaved as he took shuddering breaths. It was another one of those beautiful moments where Sansa felt she saw him entirely, as he was. No doubt her hair was everywhere, a mess like his, no doubt her pupils were still blown wide as his were. For a long time, they simply stared at each other, both out of breath, both covered in a thin sheen of sweat.

When Sandor finally reached for her it was with a very light touch that she leaned into to assure him that yes, she wanted to be held. Sansa mirrored him, placing a hand on his chest before shuffling forwards so she could lose herself in his embrace. She felt him exhale in relief; _was he truly worried that this might not go well?_ Tipping her chin up to look at him, Sansa found her husband deep in thought. He noticed her questioning gaze.

“What are you thinking about?”

Sandor raised himself onto an elbow. Sansa slid down his chest, sitting up and straddling Sandor’s thighs.

“You. You said fuck. I want to remember that. And your face when you came for me.”

Sansa stared at her husband, wide-eyed.

“No,” she said, not stopping to wonder if it was true. “Impossible. I didn’t say- that.”

“You did,” he said. “You fucking did.”

Sansa couldn’t but grin even as she protested that she would never. She playfully pushed Sandor’s chest, rather enjoying her vantage point. 

“Is that what we’re trying next then?” It took her a moment to understand what Sandor was suggesting.

“What do you mean?” _I was the one to say it last time; now I want him to._

“You _know_ what I mean,” Sandor growled.

Sansa mirrored his words from before. “I want to hear you say it. Tell me what you want.”

Sandor didn’t share her shyness, pulling her down so that they were chest to chest.

“I want to watch you ride my cock, little bird.”

Sansa bit her lip, loving that his eyes were instantly drawn to there.

“We can try that next time?”

“You want to?” Slight disbelief coloured his tone.

“Yes,” she agreed. But remembering the soreness between her legs she hesitated. “Um, perhaps not for a while.”

Sandor nodded, though she didn't miss the flare of panic in his eyes.

“I’m fine,” she promised. “Only sore.”

A whine dragged their attention to the bedroom door.

“Oh! We didn’t let the dogs out this evening,” Sansa realised.

With a reluctant groan, Sandor sat up properly. Sansa reached for her dressing gown as Sandor passed her a towel. He put on his boxers. As they entered the kitchen, Sansa looked at the painted walls. Sandor had been right- the walls did need another coat. _We’ll need to finish that._ Sansa realised that life had not stopped. They still had the dogs to look after, they still had the estate and their jobs, and- _and I wouldn’t have it any other way._

When the dogs were safely inside, they got ready to sleep. In the bathroom mirror, Sansa caught herself grinning, utterly unable to stop. She returned to the bed, settling down with Sandor in their usual ritual, wrapped in each other. Sansa snuggled close to him, her ear against his chest.

“It’s nearly December,” she realised.

"So?"

"That means it's almost Christmas. We'll need to put up the decorations soon." There was no response. "You _do_ have decorations, don’t you?"

“We might have to go on a shopping trip for those,” Sandor admitted.

“That sounds good.” _Christmas- another new tradition to start together,_ Sansa thought. “We had better get some rest.”

“Goodnight, little bird.” With her ear on his chest the words flooded her senses. Sansa lifted her head and kissed Sandor, a sweet languid kiss that she hoped told him of all her happiness.

“Goodnight, Sandor.”

_My husband._ In the dark, Sansa breathed Sandor in. He was warm, he was gentle, he was hers.


	39. Daring to love (epilogue)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, it’s time for the epilogue- sorry for the long wait! This is a bit of a sentimental epilogue with kind of a smutty/sweet/retrospective feel- I hope you like it :) So, this is the end, I suppose- for this story, at least. I have an idea for a Christmas themed sansan AU and I’m rather tempted to write and post that over the holidays.
> 
> My original plan with this story was to post a few chapters and then delete the entire thing and give up. That obviously didn’t happen, entirely thanks to the amazing response from you guys. It sounds silly but my life is utter shit right now and you’ve kept me going. I adore this community, and you all have my love and gratitude :).

## Epilogue: Daring to love

###  **Sandor**

Sandor had always prided himself on his rationality, his ability to decipher truth and think realistically. Yet now he found himself struggling. Sansa had quit her job at the coffee shop, and was currently at a nursery for a trial shift. Though Sandor understood that it was a _trial_ shift _,_ he couldn’t shake his utter confidence in her. She was, after all, bloody perfection, as well as an angel around children, and if for some bloody ridiculous reason they couldn’t see that, he would be fully ready to kill for her. Not that she would let him. Sandor busied himself with preparing dinner instead, putting sausages and yorkshire puddings into the oven, holding the knife just a little too tightly in his stress.

It was an interesting paradox, how he no longer felt strange in their domesticity, but how that in itself was strange. Only at certain moments did Sandor realise how everything had changed. The year was drawing to a close, with Christmas less than a week away, and in just a few months his life had shifted dramatically. Sansa had been looking at law courses recently, trying to settle into her place in the world. For now, she had decided to try for a job at a nursery for the Christmas period. Though she was yet to decide her life, whenever she spoke of the future, she always included Sandor in her plans.

The estate was still transitioning too. They had done up the main kitchen but were yet to move out of the guest suite. Sandor was in the process of restoring the old kennels, and they had finally made use of the grounds, fencing off a significant area and attaching electronic collars to the dogs so that they could go outside and wander in peace. They were out there now, out of sight of Sandor as he stood by the bay windows surveying the garden, though no doubt they would return as soon as they caught onto the smell of dinner. He would never love the garden, Sandor knew, but it was no longer solely the source of his trauma, and whilst he wouldn’t venture out there for no reason, he wasn’t constantly on edge the week before when he and Sansa finally installed a greenhouse for their vegetables, and he could at least observe the Christmas roses from inside, by himself, without panicking. 

_Christmas roses,_ Sandor thought. _How ridiculous._ They didn’t even _look_ like roses, and how had Sansa’s chatter sunk so deeply into him that he was remembering the names of bloody flowers? They were pretty in their own way, Sandor supposed, but he didn’t feel the pull to flowers that Sansa did. Nor did he see her reasons for decorating their little area for Christmas.

“We can just order a fake tree,” Sandor had tried to suggest in an attempt to evade decorating. But Sansa had put her foot down.

“It’s our first holiday together,” she said. “We’re having a real tree.”

Sandor couldn’t help but give in because _first holiday together_ sounded a lot like _first of many_ and he liked that idea a _lot,_ even if it did involve a hellish trip to a Christmas decoration store (Sandor had never considered such a concept, though the hours spent in there would no doubt haunt him for life). They had emerged with a ‘perfect’ tree and decorations, _two_ unnecessary wreaths, a sleigh that doubled as a plant-pot, and enough fairy lights to make Sandor’s head hurt. Sansa protested when Sandor revealed that he had managed to slip a tiny robin ornament into the trolley, because it didn’t match the rest of the decorations, but when they got home and she realised she had failed to buy an angel for the top of the tree she let him put the bird there, right at the top. Sandor had to admit that it looked good, a little robin surrounded by green and red and gold. He still preferred _his_ little bird though.

It helped to think of Sansa as he looked out at the garden, especially her glee when he had pointed out that the roses were blooming.

“Ready for Spring,” she had whispered, before chattering on about how perfect Spring was, with all the sudden brightness and new life.

_New life._ It hadn’t escaped Sandor’s notice that Sansa had applied to work at a _nursery,_ and if it was anyone else he might have been annoyed, but he doubted that Sansa would go to such lengths to hint that she wanted children. Still, after nearly a week of unprotected sex, Sandor couldn’t hide his relief when Sansa’s period came. He decided they ought to talk about it, and finally managed to raise the subject one morning.

“So, uh, what do you think about kids?”

“I want children,” Sansa told him firmly. Something in his expression caused her determination to falter. “Do you?” She asked.

In truth, Sandor had never even considered it, never thought about cursing a child with his genes, because _his_ genes were also Gregor’s and his father’s, and _true,_ his nephews were wonderful, but that was because they had Ellie and her husband. Sandor had only ever had himself, but if he had _Sansa…._

“They’ll turn out good, I know they will,” Sansa said, giving his fears a voice and crushing them all at once in a way that he couldn’t. “You’d never let them be anything less than good.”

“I’d be a terrible father,” he warned.

Sansa’s hand found its way to his face, her head resting on his chest.

“Impossible,” she said.

“If they’re like you it’d be okay,” Sandor said, his attempt at a compromise.

Sansa just laughed.

“When?” Sandor asked. Sansa was only twenty, and he wasn’t yet thirty. “You’re so young.”

“I-” Sansa broke off with a sigh. Sandor didn’t push her, but it took a while to coax the truth from her.

“Is it terrible that I want to wait?” Sansa asked. “Only a little while-” She broke off, her eyes searching for his approval.

“No problem with that,” Sandor assured her. “It’ll be nice just us.”

He was secretly relieved that they would be able to bask in each other’s company a while longer.

“I _do_ want children, though,” Sansa said.

“I’m not entirely opposed to the idea,” Sandor admitted. Since he had first thought about it, he had started to notice kids from time to time, especially when he saw his nephews. “I need time to get used to the idea,” he said. That much was certainly true, so for the moment Sansa was on the pill as Sandor grappled with the terrifying prospect of fatherhood.

Now that they were making headway with the estate, Sandor had settled into a somewhat ordinary schedule, one that thankfully involved seeing a lot of Sansa. They had put in a new, simple staircase, taking out the previous winding bullshit, and added a lift for when Ellie came to visit, which she had done, though she was yet to stay for a night. _Probably just as well,_ Sandor thought, given how he and Sansa spent their nights now. Though Sansa had her sewing room now and he his projects, each evening they retired to their bedroom, and it was there that they spent the best hours of Sandor’s day. Sansa’s shyness dissipated gradually and it took Sandor a while to learn her- not only what she enjoyed, but _how_ she told him so. He understood quickly when her kisses were affectionate, he knew when they were chaste, but he failed initially to notice that the hunger in them was hunger for _more_ , hunger for _him._ Sansa snapped three days after their first time, when she placed a hand on his chest to keep him down as she climbed on top. It was only then that Sandor realised she wanted to fuck him again.

It took Sansa some time to get used to being on top, and Sandor guided her hips for a while, loving the bounce of her breasts, and strangely, rather enjoying looking up at her. She was exquisite, and shyly admitted to him a week later that that was the best orgasm she had felt. So, seeing as she appeared to enjoy the sensation of being penetrated from underneath… Well, Sandor had an idea.

Sandor’s ideas weren’t limited to sex, either. Though those thoughts were entirely pleasurable, there were problems, too. Chiefly was his concern of what to buy Sansa for Christmas. It wasn’t until Sansa explained that she wanted a second wreath to hang on the kitchen wall, deeming it too bare without it, that Sandor realised what he could give her. He had crafted a large photo frame with space inside for over a dozen smaller frames, painting all of it white. What followed had been a process of stealth, though he quickly learned that Sansa’s observational skills were limited. He managed to take several pictures of her without her noticing, but his favourite was one he took in the evening, when they were on their walk with the dogs. Sandor lagged behind long enough to take a picture of Sansa flanked by the two dogs, her hair tumbling over her back. She looked like a bloody goddess, the sunset trailing a long shadow behind her and silhouetting her body. Sandor had already decided that that one was perfect for the centre of the frame. Perhaps it was strange to only have photos of Sansa and the dogs, but Sandor wasn’t about to ruin it with pictures of himself. The frame would look good on the wall, he thought, the white edges matching the countertops.

“Hello.”

Sandor turned from the garden to see his wife.

“How did it go?”

Sansa grinned. She tugged off her hat, revealing ears reddened with cold, almost as bright as her hair.

“It went well, thank you. It’s all settled; the job is mine, and I have all of my shifts for Christmas arranged.”

“Amazing.” Sandor stepped forwards to crush her in a hug, ducking his head to kiss the top of hers. “Well done, little bird.“

Sansa hummed against his chest, holding him tightly.

“It’s freezing out there,” she said, when they drew apart.

“I can tell.”

Sansa raised herself up onto the balls of her feet.

"How am I going to get warm?" she asked. Her voice had turned husky, her lips so close to his that he could feel her breath. Her eyes, previously fixed upon his face, now danced downwards, inadvertently exposing her intentions. Every inch of her body was pressed tightly against his, it seemed, and Sandor could feel himself getting hard. He lifted his arms to anchor them both in place, running his hands up and down her back as Sansa’s fingertips found his side. He wasn’t sure who closed the gap between them, but suddenly they were kissing. Sandor had no idea how long they kissed- Christmas could have come and gone and escaped his notice- before Sansa pulled back, chest heaving.

"Feeling any warmer?" Sandor asked.

“Oh, yes.” Sansa said, a slow smile spreading across her face. “A little.”

“Only a little? We’ll have to fix that.”

Sandor ducked his head to kiss Sansa again. Her tongue flicked out into his mouth, brushing his for a second before retreating, tempting Sandor to run his into her mouth in an attempt to seek it out.

“You’re a tease,” he muttered, breaking the kiss to find the skin of her neck. He sucked gently in a way he knew would make her tighten her arms around him. When Sansa did, he snaked his arms around her waist and hoisted her up until they were almost the same height. Sansa wound her legs around his waist and reached for his chin with her hand. She tilted it upwards so that she could trail a path of feather light kisses to his neck. Sandor shivered, carrying her over to the kitchen island. Sansa was light, a little bird in truth, all bright feathers and little chirps of surprise as he moved. Her eyes opened, blue emerging darkened by desire as she ground against him.

Sandor made no effort to hide his physical reaction to his little wife, something between a groan and a growl escaping his throat. He set Sansa down on the kitchen island just long enough to reach under her skirt and pull down her tights and underwear, taking the time to feel the length of her leg as he did so. She moved quickly, too, and Sandor heard his zipper being undone. Her agile fingers made quick work of his jeans and boxers.

“Kiss me, please.”

Nothing in the world could make him refuse her. But when Sansa shuffled forwards, and her hand reached for his cock, Sandor just chuckled.

“What’s the rush?” It wasn’t often that he was the patient one, but when he was- when he’d had the time and luxury of jerking off earlier to the thought of this moment- Sandor liked to tease her. He enjoyed Sansa’s pretty blush even more now he knew how far down it extended. Sansa’s hands tugged at the hem of his t-shirt and Sandor pulled it off. Hers followed, revealing that she wasn’t wearing a bra.

“When did you take that off?”

“As soon as I got in.”

Sandor kissed her, hard, appreciating her eagerness. They had been making up for lost time, it seemed, and though the months that lead up to this were difficult in their own way, Sandor wouldn’t change a thing. It was hard to feel regret when Sansa’s hands were holding him close.

“To answer your question, I’ve missed you.” Sansa spoke against his lips, like she couldn’t bear to move apart. “That’s the rush.”

“Missed you too.”

The phrase had become something of a substitute for _I love you,_ because Sandor still found those words too much to say. He did try, once, but his throat just constricted and he felt so bloody stupid; he had come home to find Sansa with the dogs, nothing out of the ordinary, but a wave of overwhelming love had hit Sandor as he thought about their little family. Sansa had noticed his entrance and looked up.

“I missed you,” she had said, and Sandor had replied in kind. He never tried to explain, but he hoped that Sansa realised what he meant, because he knew he was shit at talking so it could be months before he said the words. If the way Sansa pulled back briefly to meet his eyes as she offered him the most tender smile was any indication, she understood. Then she leaned towards Sandor again and his cock grazed her thigh and Sansa whimpered, _she fucking whimpered,_ and finally Sandor’s patience ran out. He groaned, pulling her towards him.

Sansa giggled when Sandor lifted her again, his hands sliding over her curves to settle against her thighs. Sandor carried her over to the wall, abandoning their pile of clothes. He noticed Sansa’s confusion in the furrow of her brow, and the way her eyes widened as Sandor pushed her up against the wall. _She understands, but does she want it?_

“What’re you thinking?” He asked. For him, it was obvious; seeing Sansa pressed up against the wall, hemmed in by his body made his newly-freed cock twitch. But perhaps-

Sansa offered Sandor a grin.

“I’m thinking that I’m going to like this very much.”

_Gods,_ Sandor thought, there was so much of her to adore: the inquisitive little hum she made, the way she leaned into him, how naturally her arms found their way to his shoulders. Sandor melted at the press of her breasts against his chest, her nipples hardened, though he preferred to take them in his mouth. Most of all, he loved her hair, tumbling over her shoulders in bright waves. It could be a nuisance, as they had figured out when trying out new ways to fuck- or as Sansa still called it, lovemaking (she wasn’t wrong)- but bloody hells, Sandor loved it. The fact that he could tolerate Sansa’s eyes said it all. Not the colour- they were brighter than the sky, how could he not adore that?- but when Sandor got close, close enough to see himself all shiny in that blue… Well, he hated his reflection. But he could _tolerate_ it- he didn’t mind so much. Sometimes it was enough to know that Sansa liked to look upon him, as insane as it was.

Sandor shifted his hands, Sansa’s skin supple under his touch. One of his hands gripped the soft flesh of her thighs, the other a little higher, spanning her pert little ass and the curve of her back all at once.

Sansa’s hands danced across his body as she bucked her hips. Sandor couldn’t help but pull back to look at her, amazed that she could still blush when he was about to bury himself inside of her. He kissed those pretty pinking cheeks, trailing his kisses down to her neck. He mourned the loss of Sansa’s hands only for a second before they settled on his face, fingers tangling in his hair and brushing against his ruined cheek. Why she would want to look at his scars, let alone touch them, was still a mystery to Sandor, but he wasn’t fool enough to complain. 

This was all still so new- _for the both of us_ , Sandor realised. It was nothing like a quick fuck in the dark. It was nothing like the one night stands that had only happened when Sandor had drowned his pride with alcohol and found a woman equally as drunk, enough not to notice or care about his face. How had he come from there to this? Now he had the woman of his dreams in bed with him- well, up against the wall- and he wanted her more than anyone ever before. _And anyone after._ He knew that this was it. Sandor let his thoughts lead him back to the present, to Sansa resting her weight equally on the wall and on his arms. She writhed against him, matching his need.

Sandor pushed his tip against her entrance, groaning as he felt Sansa’s hand slide between them to grip him firmly, lining him up. Though he couldn’t deny that he enjoyed the power that came with this position, it hadn’t escaped Sandor what little range of movement Sansa had. He hesitated.

“Sandor?” Sansa prompted.

“You’ll tell me if it’s too much,” he said, the words coming out harsher than intended.

“Of course I will.”

Slowly, Sandor sank into her.

“Gods,” he heard himself hiss. “Sansa-”

He hesitated, halfway inside her, then pulled back before sliding back in, gradually stretching her more each time. Her inner walls clenched him tight. The pressure on Sandor’s shoulders increased as he thrust harder, faster. Sansa was intoxicating; her hands gripped him, her moans hot against his skin, her neediness matching his. Sandor leaned forward to capture her mouth and then those sweet moans were breathed against his lips. With a groan, Sandor pushed harder against Sansa, pinning her against the wall as he thrust into her. His head was spinning, every sense engaged. Her little moans, the sweet smell of her, the brightness of her hair against the backdrop of their grey wall…. it was enough to drown him. The haze was akin to the drunkenness that had plagued so much of his past, but instead of a steady fall into oblivion he was building to something else, the ecstasy just out of reach. Sandor was lost to logic, sense and reason, but thankfully Sansa demanded nothing but attention, and that he readily gave.

With a flick of his tongue, Sandor descended upon her, adjusting her position before taking one of her nipples into his mouth. The hitch in Sansa’s breathing finally broke him, and Sandor gave into the urge to pound into her. Sansa’s head was thrown back against the wall, her nails digging into his back as she fought to find balance. Feeling her warmth envelop him, her legs cradling him and drawing him deep inside, was far too much for Sandor to handle in a controlled manner _._ He thought it was a miracle he hadn’t hurt Sansa the first time, and it took another two weeks until anything other than her explicit, near-constant consent assured him. Now he knew, from a simple touch, or the curve of her lips, what she wanted. If Sansa’s hand went quickly to his cock, she wanted it rough; a kiss to his jaw meant slow. Right now, her unabashed moaning, and the flush leading all the way down her neck to her breasts, meant that he ought to continue exactly what he was doing.

Sansa was gripping his body so tightly Sandor was certain that her nails must have broken his skin. He was sure that she had clawed her way through him until he was nothing but need. It was a pain that blended with bliss. Hearing Sansa find her release was what took Sandor over the edge too. He came with a guttural moan, his head dropping to Sansa’s shoulder as a piercing blackness overtook his vision. As was so often the case, Sandor was utterly undone by the softness of her hair as it tickled his shoulder, like silk, softer even than the caress of her fingertips. They were both breathing raggedly, still pressed together.

When Sansa started to lower her legs, Sandor spun around instead, placing her on one of the bar stools at the kitchen island before moving to grab her dressing gown from their bedroom. Sansa’s gaze raked over Sandor when he returned.

“My eager little bird,” Sandor said, not missing how her lips curved upwards at the sight of his still-naked body. “I want to taste you.”

“Oh-” Sansa’s voice hitched up in surprise. She was still timid about Sandor tasting her cunt, and they'd only tried it once, but the way she bit her lip to fight a smile assured Sandor she liked the idea. “Later?” she suggested, “If you're certain.”

Sandor nodded. There was nothing that could taste better to Sandor than her wetness, so sweet and so very receptive when he flicked his tongue….

A knock on the roof sent their attention upwards. It was followed by several more in rapid succession, the storm growing louder than the rain they were used to. 

“Do you think it could be snow?”

A glance outside told them it wasn’t snow but hail, driving the dogs inside with wet fur and muddied paws.

“What’re we doing now then?” Sandor asked, as he got dressed.

“I’m rather hungry,” Sansa said.

Sandor knew she meant food, but he couldn’t help but tease her anyway about her appetite, rewarded by the slow spread of pink across her cheeks.

“What have you thought about for next time?”

Her question caught Sandor off-guard.

“What?”

“ _That-_ ” Sansa’s eyes flickered to the wall. “I- um, I know you must have other ideas.” Though her tone held her usual hesitancy, Sandor heard the intrigue behind her question. In truth, he _had_ thought about it, endlessly. Sansa wasn’t shy when they were together, but they had a sort of method where Sandor suggested things, and Sansa let him know how much she liked the idea.

“Lots of ideas,” Sandor muttered.

Shower sex, for one. Though never appealing to him before, it now was, ever since he walked in on Sansa in the shower. The image of her wet hair clinging to her curves was burned into Sandor’s mind. And it wasn’t only _positions_ he had ideas for- though those were numerous- but other things too. There was so much that he found himself considering: new foods to cook together, Sansa’s new job, and new rooms of the estate. Perhaps they might have a new house one day if they decided not to stay at the estate, and yes, _maybe_ kids too, but only if they were tiny copies of Sansa for Sandor to treasure. Though perhaps they could have some of his physical strength, because the idea of sending his kids outside into the world filled Sandor with terror, no matter how old they were, no matter that they didn’t exist. Yet. 

But all of those ideas could wait. For Sandor, it was enough that they had built their life together. For the first time, he felt some new emotion welling up-

“I really am hungry, though,” Sansa said, pulling him from his head.

“Right,” Sandor said. “I put some- _oh, fuck._ ”

It was only then that Sandor remembered the food he had put in the oven, what must have been several hours prior.

“Shit,” he swore again.

The time for speed was long gone, so with slow reluctance Sandor opened the oven door. The meal was entirely unsalvageable, plumes of smoke parting to reveal charred remains. Sansa’s uncontrollable giggling was enough to set Sandor off too, and it wasn’t long before they were laughing together as they delved into the freezer for the emergency pizza stash.

The way Sansa looked at him, with light in her eyes and a wide grin was like a punch to the gut, and Sandor allowed himself to think that maybe he took up as much of Sansa’s thoughts as she did his. That strange new emotion was increasingly present, pressing in at the corners. It was like falling through light, without darkness at the end. It was like resignation, but without despair, and with something else, something sweeter, something like hope. Watching Sansa as she moved around the kitchen, it came to him in a flash, and he knew what the feeling was: Sandor might have dared to say that he was entirely content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's it! I really, really hope you enjoyed. Thank you for sticking with this story all the way to the end; I'd love to hear what you think :)


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